The Lost Realm

by J. D. Rinehart

  How many more will it take before I find my brother?

  With a raucous cry, Theeta splayed her wings wide, slowing her descent as she swooped majestically into the forest clearing. She flew low over a row of tents; Tarlan saw lines of wounded soldiers lying outside them, their faces turned up in the pale light of the morning sun. His winged steed passed a makeshift forge, where blacksmiths toiled over broken weapons. He guided Theeta into an open space between an enormous fire pit and a corral of horses, where she touched down at last.

  Their thorrod companions landed beside them, each bird silent despite its massive bulk. As soon as they were all down, Tarlan slipped to the ground and helped the survivors to dismount. Nurses arrived from the hospital tents carrying stretchers; gratefully, Tarlan handed the survivors over to their care.

  “You did well, Theeta,” he said, patting the bird’s huge beak. He smiled at the other thorrods. “You all did.”

  “Fly again?” Theeta replied in her dry hiss of a voice.

  Before Tarlan could reply, something heavy bowled into him, knocking his legs out from under him and spilling him to the ground. He rose laughing, throwing his arms around the two animals that had just felled him like a tree.

  “Greythorn! Filos! Are you trying to kill me?”

  The wolf and the tigron cub pressed against his legs, yipping and purring their pleasure.

  “I am happy when the pack is together,” said Greythorn.

  “Me too,” Tarlan replied.

  “Your brother?” asked Filos. “Did you find your brother?”

  Tarlan stroked the tigron’s blue-and-white striped fur. “No, Filos. It’s chaos over there. But I’ll keep trying.”

  “Brother melted,” said Theeta.

  “Melted?” It took Tarlan a moment to work out what she was saying. “Oh, you mean he disappeared?”

  “Brother melted,” Theeta agreed.

  Tarlan nodded, remembering that strange moment in the middle of the battle when he’d seen Gulph facing the undead monster their father had become . . . and suddenly turning invisible.

  I talk to animals. Elodie sees ghosts. And Gulph . . . Is vanishing your only trick, my brother, or can you do more?

  “He will be hard to find,” grunted Greythorn.

  “Yes,” Tarlan agreed. “But I won’t give up.”

  The last of the people he’d rescued—a young man with a broken arm and a deep gash on the side of his face—looked at Tarlan curiously as he hobbled past.

  The only thing they can hear when my friends speak are growls and squawks, Tarlan thought, feeling a curious breed of pride. We have a language all our own.

  He led his pack to the fire pit, where they sat eating strips of meat—cooked for himself, raw for the others. As they ate, Tarlan checked Theeta’s injured foot.

  “How does it feel?” he said, touching the bandaged stump where Brutan had severed one of her talons during the Battle of the Bridge.

  “Claw gone,” Theeta mumbled through a beakful of meat.

  “That’s right.” He patted her scaly leg. “You must tell me if you need to rest, Theeta. We’ve done three flights since the battle already.”

  “Brother there,” Theeta replied, in a tone that told Tarlan they would be in the air again soon.

  Once they’d eaten, Tarlan sat fidgeting. He knew they should rest at least a little longer before setting out for Idilliam again. But the Trident camp, with its constant human bustle, was just so noisy.

  You’re a human yourself, a voice whispered in his head. These are your people.

  “No,” he muttered. “I have my pack. I go my own way.”

  “And what way might that be?”

  Tarlan turned to see Fessan standing a few paces behind him. The Trident commander’s arms were folded, and his scarred face was stern.

  “Back to Idilliam, if it’s anything to do with you,” said Tarlan, standing up. “Someone’s got to help these people.”

  “You’ve done enough, my prince,” Fessan replied. “I cannot authorize another flight.”

  “Authorize?” Tarlan snapped. He hated it when Fessan called him “prince.” “You think I need your permission?”

  “It is too dangerous.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I’m the one who flew in there during the battle, remember? You didn’t even get past the bridge!”

  “Many of my men died on the bridge.”

  Tarlan supposed that Fessan was right. But was that any excuse for inaction?

  “Everyone’s just lying around licking their wounds!” he said. “At least I’m doing something! What other hope has my brother got?”

  “Ah, so we come to it. It is not the citizens of Idilliam you care about. You just want to find your brother.”

  “Of course I want to find Gulph. So does Elodie. If I can help some others along the way, so much the better.”

  Tarlan realized he was advancing on Fessan, and that Greythorn and Filos were matching him stride for stride. The wolf and the tigron were both growling, and their hackles were raised. Tarlan could feel the curl of his own lip against his teeth.

  Suddenly he saw that Fessan didn’t look stern at all. He looked exhausted.

  “Back,” he murmured, dropping his hands to his companions’ heads. Both animals looked up at him curiously. But they did stop growling. “Go back. It’s all right. Just leave us a minute.”

  Reluctantly, Greythorn and Filos retreated, planting themselves among the waiting thorrods and looking on suspiciously.

  “I suppose you’ve got a better plan?” Tarlan said to Fessan, speaking more quietly now.

  Fessan regarded him through narrow eyes. “I do.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Are you going to listen?”

  Tarlan couldn’t suppress his smile. “I suppose I might.”

  Fessan bowed his head with a small smile of his own. “Very well, my prince. We will go back to Idilliam. You are right. Gulph must be found—the prophecy depends on it. We agree on that much, at least. But Brutan’s forces are strong, and their numbers will only continue to grow as more of the undead join their ranks. To defeat them, we will need an army the like of which Toronia has never seen before. But that is not all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  Despite himself, Tarlan was fascinated. As soon as he started talking strategy, Fessan’s eyes lit up with a kind of fire, and Tarlan began to understand what it truly was to be a soldier.

  “No. Before we can cross the chasm, we must repair the bridge . . . or build a new one altogether. For that we will need engineers, and lots of them.” Fessan looked south, staring through the trees as if he were seeing not the forest but what lay beyond. “Even that is not enough, though. Idilliam is only part of the picture. We will need a second army, to march on Ritherlee. The Vicerins have become too powerful.”

  At the mention of the name, Tarlan’s skin crawled. The memories of his imprisonment by Lord Vicerin were too recent and bitter to forget. For a moment he could again hear the sound of Theeta’s wings as she’d carried him away from his prison, and feel his anger at being forced to leave behind the mysterious green gemstone that matched those worn by Elodie and Gulph. Tarlan thought it through and shook his head. “Gulph can’t wait that long. He needs us now. My brother needs me.”

  “And you will help him,” said an old, dry voice.

  Tarlan whirled to find himself staring straight into the face of Melchior. He’d thought his ears were as highly tuned as those of his pack; so how did the wizard always manage to sneak up on him?

  “I’m glad you agree,” he said.

  “But you will not help him now,” Melchior added.

  Tarlan scowled. Everything the wizard said seemed wrapped in many meanings. Humans were hard enough to understand, but wizards . . .

  “Gulph needs me,” he said stolidly. “I have to go to him. For all I know, he might be dead.”

  “He is not.”

  “How do you
know that?”

  Melchior raised one bony finger to the sky. The other stars had now faded, but the three prophecy stars still winked against the rosy sky.

  “They appeared the night you were born,” said Melchior. “One each for the three. . . .”

  “I know all that,” Tarlan snapped. “I don’t see what—”

  “If we see them, we’re safe.”

  It was Elodie, emerging from the gloom to stand beside the wizard. Of all the humans Tarlan had come to know, Elodie was the least strange.

  “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Melchior?” she said.

  Melchior nodded. “Your sister speaks the truth. If Gulph were dead, his star would go out. And that would extinguish the prophecy itself. The prophecy—the fate of Toronia—rests not on one pair of shoulders but on three. It is all of you, or it is none of you.”

  Tarlan stared at the lights in the sky. What was he, that his fate was bound to these celestial fires? And what right do they have to tell me what to do? Not for the first time, part of him wished he could reach up, strike them from the sky, and be free.

  “So, now that is settled,” the wizard went on, “you must come with me, Tarlan. While Fessan and Elodie are busy rebuilding Trident, you and I have an important journey to make!”

  Fessan, who had been turning away, wheeled around with a startled expression on his face.

  “Melchior, have you lost your senses? As long as the triplets are separated, they are vulnerable. Elodie and Tarlan must stay together. And I need you here. Trident needs you.”

  Tarlan felt as surprised as Fessan looked—and pleased, too. A journey! Maybe he couldn’t escape his destiny, but could this be his chance to get away from these crowded tents and fly free in clean air once more? How wonderful that would be.

  Even if I do have to put up with a wizard for company.

  He glanced at Elodie. What would she think of being parted so soon? They’d barely gotten to know each other. But to his surprise, his sister smiled at him.

  “You should go,” she said. “I can see you want to.”

  Fessan shook his head. “I cannot let you leave—neither of you.”

  “You cannot stop us,” Melchior said gently. “Tarlan, will you come?”

  Mirith—who’d raised Tarlan as if he’d been her own child—had always told him the best decisions were made quickly.

  When your head and heart are at war, tell your head to lay down its sword. That’s what she used to say.

  “When are we leaving?” he asked.

  The sky was darkening by the time Tarlan found himself loading a knapsack with pouches of dried food and skins of water. Melchior had insisted that he rest before they depart and he had to concede that the long sleep curled beside Theeta’s wing had done him good. His limbs felt strong and his head clear. As he noosed the neck of the sack, Elodie came up carrying a small pile of spare clothes.

  “I hope you’ll remember to wash,” she said, stuffing the clothes into the sack. “You know what you’re like.”

  “You knew about Melchior’s plan all along, didn’t you?” said Tarlan. “Where is he taking me?”

  Elodie glanced around furtively, then lowered her voice. “I don’t know exactly. But I think you’re going to help Melchior get his powers back.”

  “Powers?” At first Tarlan didn’t understand. Then it dawned on him. “His magic? You mean he doesn’t . . .”

  He listened as Elodie told him a story that sounded like a tale to scare children, but which he knew was only too true. A tale of betrayal, and a witch burned at the stake, and a wizard so desperate to save her that he’d sacrificed his magic in the attempt.

  “Our mother,” he breathed when she’d finished. “I didn’t think I could hate Brutan any more than I did. I will find him. And when I do, I will kill him!”

  “He’s dead already,” Elodie said drily. “It doesn’t seem to have made much difference.”

  Tarlan wasn’t listening. “I will go with Melchior. We will get his powers back. Whatever he needs me to do, I will do it. I will do it for our mother, Elodie!”

  He broke off. His sister’s eyes were wide with some emotion he couldn’t measure. Why were human feelings so complex?

  “Be safe,” she said.

  “You could come,” he said suddenly. “It’s like Fessan said: We’re safer together. Like a pack.”

  Elodie arched one eyebrow. “A pack of animals?”

  “Exactly!”

  Elodie shook her head, but she was grinning. “You’ll be back soon,” she said. “The prophecy will see to that. Besides, Fessan needs me to help rebuild Trident. You’re not the only one with work to do.”

  She hugged him, then stepped away. The fire pit glowed behind her, surrounding her with an orange halo.

  “So it’s good-bye, then.”

  “Farewell, my brother. For now.”

  A hard, curved shape pressed into the small of Tarlan’s back. He turned and touched his hand to the tip of Theeta’s beak.

  “Greythorn! Filos!” he called, leaping onto the thorrod’s back. “Go to Kitheen! We’re leaving!”

  The black thorrod crouched silently, allowing the wolf and the tigron to leap on. As they nestled in his coarse feathers, Tarlan looked to his left.

  “Nasheen?” he said with a grin. “How’s your passenger?”

  “Wizard heavy,” the white thorrod replied. Thorrods were not known for their sense of humor, but Tarlan got the idea that the enormous bird had just made a joke.

  “It is many years since I flew,” Melchior said uncertainly. “And in those days I did not need wings.”

  On the ground, Elodie had been joined by Fessan. Even though the Trident commander sometimes made his hackles rise, Tarlan was glad his sister was under Fessan’s protection. He couldn’t imagine a more loyal ally.

  “Will you not reconsider?” Fessan said.

  “We’ve made up our minds,” Tarlan replied. “We’re going.”

  “Then go with speed and in safety. And return soon.”

  “We will!”

  “We are in our right place,” Melchior added. “As are you, Fessan. Your father, Ossilius, would be proud of you. You will make good choices. And one day you will lead Trident to victory.”

  Upon hearing his words, Fessan relaxed visibly. For a moment Tarlan thought he saw not a confident soldier but an uncertain boy, anxious for approval. Then Fessan’s back straightened and his arm lifted in a salute.

  “Fare you well!” he cried.

  “Good luck!” Elodie added. “And come back whole!”

  In a flurry of feathers, the three thorrods lifted into the night sky. Tarlan wound his fingers into Theeta’s ruff, relishing the blast of cold air against his face as the giant bird accelerated over the trees and into the waiting darkness.

  Into the world! he thought giddily. Once more into the world!

  “Which way?” he shouted to Melchior as Nasheen and Kitheen rose up on either side of them.

  “West,” replied the wizard.

  “Down sun,” Theeta cawed, pumping her wings.

  “While we fly,” Melchior went on, “I will tell you more about why we fly.”

  “You haven’t told me anything yet.”

  “No. But your sister has.” Melchior was smiling.

  “How did you know that she . . . ?”

  “Allow a wizard to keep at least a few of his secrets, Tarlan. Did Elodie also tell you I cannot regain my powers without your help?”

  Tarlan’s chest swelled. He’d assumed Melchior simply wanted a companion on the journey—perhaps someone to help out in a fight.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “All in good time. Now, where is it? . . . Hah, there! Look up, Tarlan, to your left. Do you see that streak of light?”

  Tarlan scanned the starry sky. Almost at once his eyes fell upon a faint white line drawn across the heavens. It was slightly blurred, and swollen at one end.

  “It is a comet,” explained Melch
ior. “It appeared three moons ago. Back then it was too faint for most mortals to see.”

  “But I suppose you saw it.”

  “My eyes are old, but they see far.”

  Something in the wizard’s tone made Tarlan’s flesh prickle.

  “When I saw the comet,” Melchior continued, “I knew my days of wandering were over at last. Beneath its growing light, I walked back into the world. Now the comet is bright enough for all to see. Over the coming nights, it will grow brighter still, until it outshines even the prophecy stars. Then it will swiftly fade.”

  “What happens then?”

  “I have but one chance to regain my powers, Tarlan. One chance, on one night, when the comet blazes with the forgotten fire of the distant deep. If I fail, my magic will be gone forever.”

  “And the prophecy?”

  The wizard didn’t answer.

  The thorrods flew on into the night, dark shapes in a darker world. Their flight, as always, was silent; the only sound that came to Tarlan’s ears was the occasional grunt or growl from Filos and Greythorn, who were almost invisible on Kitheen’s black back.

  Tarlan’s excitement slowly dwindled, leaving him feeling strangely dejected. His brother was lost, and here he was leaving his sister behind too. Ahead lay emptiness and the crushing threat of failure.

  “Where are we going anyway?” he said at last.

  The wizard’s voice floated out of the blackness, unexpectedly jovial. “Why, Tarlan, we are headed west. Where else would we be going but to the sea!”

  Tarlan gasped. “The sea? I’ve never even seen it!”

  “I thought as much.”

  “Is it . . . is it as big as they say?”

  “Bigger.”

  “And is it beautiful?”

  “Tarlan, you have no idea.”

  The sea!

  Tarlan grinned. He was free and clear, buoyed up by possibility and driven by adventure. The troubles he’d left behind would just have to take care of themselves for a while.