The Missing Kin (12 page)

He took his steed to one side of the road to allow
the retreat to go unimpeded. But the Callibeen troops
were growing ragged. Wounded soldiers staggered
from the gap and eventually a few soldiers began
running. That was all it took. Panic spread through
the Callibeen troops, pricking them with terror. A
roar went up from the enemy and they began to
pursue.

Adalon urged his steed forward. With a clash of
brass hoofs, it cantered toward the Thraag troops
who were emerging from the narrows.

'Adalon!' The cry made him turn in his saddle.
Targesh and his High Battilon riders were racing to
join him. He bared his teeth and drew his sword,
which glittered like blue fire. He hurtled at the Thraag
line, crashing into them like a thunderbolt. Reaching
the other side he wheeled and galloped back to join
Targesh and his force.

'We ride!' Targesh bellowed.

The Thraag troops had not been expecting
cavalry. Seeing the blue and green armour of the
cavalry leaders, they quailed. Some dropped their
weapons and tried to press back into the gap but
were pushed out by the bulk of the army coming the
other way.

Adalon glanced over his shoulder and saw that
the Sleeto company had disobeyed orders. Instead
of retreating to the burned-out village at the eastern
end of the valley, they were helping wounded retreat
along the road. He smiled grimly. These were the
sort of troops he wanted, not mindlessly following
orders, but using their brains and doing the right
thing instead.

But more time was needed if the Callibeen
survivors were to make it across the bridge. He
wheeled again, trying to keep momentum and
surprise in his favour.

A red flash hurtled along the road in his direction
as he slammed his tail against the jaw of a foolishly
brave Clawed One who'd tried to grab the bridle.
Simangee, in her ruby armour, joined them, scattering
the Thraag soldiers.

The three friends clad in their bright metal armour
met for a moment. Then they sprang to lead the
High Battilon riders against the vast Thraag army
that was still surging into the valley.

Again and again the riders turned and assailed
the enemy, but despite the magic of the A'ak armour
and weapons, they were outnumbered. Gradually
more and more Thraag soldiers pushed out of the
gap, regrouping into formation under the harsh
orders of their sergeants. Adalon pulled up his steed
for a moment and stood in his stirrups, staring back
toward the entrance to the valley. He cursed when he
saw no end to the troops.

He risked a glance eastward. 'Simangee! Targesh!'
he called. 'The wounded have crossed the bridge.'

As one, they rounded and galloped up the road,
taking the High Battilon riders with them. Adalon's
mind raced, thinking what to do next. He was
grateful that none of the riders had been lost in their
desperate defence.

The bridge loomed and he saw that much of it
had already been torn down. A single, narrow span
remained. Burly saur with axes were waiting for them
to cross. The river was a torrent – young, just born
from the springs and meltwater of the mountains.
It was wild, deep in places, but barely twenty paces
across. He couldn't see that it would stop the enemy
for long, but it was the best defensive position in
the valley.

They raced over the remains of the bridge, brass
hoofs crashing on the timber. Once on the other side,
Adalon leaped from the saddle. 'Now!' he shouted.

The saur went to work, swinging wildly, and the
beams soon splintered. With a groan and crash,
the bridge fell and the timbers were swept away
by the waters.

'Here we make our stand,' Simangee said.

Hoolgar broke off from tending the wounded
and approached. He gazed toward the enemy. The
commanders had reasserted control and the ranks
were reforming in their terrifying strength. 'We must
hold them.'

'We have allies,' Adalon said with a confidence
he didn't feel. 'Reinforcements should be with us
soon.'

Hoolgar burbled a few sombre notes. 'I know
some healing arts. Where would be the best place to
set up a field hospital to tend to the wounded?'

Hoolgar's simple, helpful request made Adalon
clench his jaw, hard. It emphasised that on this day
saur would be hurt. Saur would die. How Adalon
managed himself and his forces would make a
difference to the numbers, but it would not change
the fact that death would stalk Sleeto Pass this
day.

For a moment, he felt crushed by the responsibility.
Then he straightened. His father had led saur into
battle. He had spoken little of it, only to say that he
did the best he could.

Adalon promised that he would try to do the
same.

At that moment a ball of flame the size of a house
erupted from the road, swallowing dozens of
Thraag soldiers. Adalon glanced at Simangee. 'Your
work?'

'I managed to bury a fire potion in the road,' she
said. 'There are two more.'

'They will be more careful,' Hoolgar said. 'They'll
march off the road and be alert.'

'I hope they will. I put the others to either side of
the road.'

Simangee's clever plan worked. Two more fireballs
bit chunks from the advancing army, but the holes in
the ranks were soon filled by soldiers from the rear.

'They're like ants,' Simangee murmured.

Hoolgar whistled a short, sad tune. 'We are
facing a vast foe. Fear will be at work in our troops.
I suggest that we do what we can to lift their spirits.'

Adalon walked among his warriors, hoping to
rally them. The Callibeen soldiers were grateful for
the bravery of the riders. They knew they would have
been cut down long before they reached the river
if not for them. They confirmed that Ordoon had
been lost, fighting in the thickest of the fray. They
seemed to accept without question that Adalon was
now their leader. In their eyes, his bravery more than
outweighed his youth.

He kept moving, offering words of comfort to
the wounded and uncertain, organising them into
small units of four or five saur each. As much as
possible he included one of the Sleeto soldiers in
each company. If all looked lost, their orders were to
scatter to the caves around the edge of the valley and
to harry the rear and the flanks of the Thraag Army.
Under no circumstances were they to engage at close
quarters. Throw stones, dig pits, use snares, attack
the baggage train, use local wiles and knowledge to
strike and slip away.

Targesh ordered the riders to do the same – harass,
don't get trapped into close combat.

Adalon knew that it wasn't victory he was seeking,
it was time. Time for his allies to appear.

He saw Simangee's ruby armour as she moved
from one saur to another, rallying spirits through
her example. 'Sim!' he called. She looked up from
exchanging a joke with a young spearsaur and jogged
to join him.

'They're scared, Adalon,' she reported. 'Which is
sensible. What's remarkable is that they still want to
fight.'

Adalon didn't want to fight, but he knew they
needed to. 'I think it's time for the three warriors to
ride.'

Simangee's face was solemn. 'It's come to this?'

'We can keep 'em from crossing,' Targesh said.
'We'll stop 'em.'

Adalon gripped Simangee's shoulder, and
Targesh's upper arm. 'For the land's sake.'

With Targesh and Simangee at his side, he urged
his steed to the bank of the river and waited for
the might of Thraag. The white water foamed and
rushed, making for a challenging crossing but not
an impossible one. If Adalon were in charge of the
Thraag force, he'd order the soldiers to link arms
and form chains across the river, with the foremost
taking ropes to be anchored on the other side. Once
anchored, the rest of the Thraag soldiers could use
the ropes to cling to while they crossed.

So
, Adalon thought,
all we need to do is to stop
the ropes
.

The enemy was slow and deliberate in
approaching the river. On command, they stopped
when they neared the bank. A company of crossbow
saur stepped forward. At a trumpet blast, they let
their arrows fly at Adalon, Simangee and Targesh,
unmissable figures mounted on brass riding beasts.

Adalon was grimly pleased at the consternation
that went up when the arrows bounced off his
armour and the plates of his riding beast. Simangee
sang a jaunty song. Targesh held up his emerald
green shield to protect his bare head, and bellowed
laughter at the puny attack. The crossbow saur tried
another volley but when that was unsuccessful they
were ordered to rejoin the ranks.

Two score or more columns of lightly armoured
saur trotted forward. Their intent was clear: cross
the river and secure ropes. Some would fail, but
just one successful crossing was necessary, then the
others could follow in numbers.

'I love a challenge,' Targesh rumbled.

Adalon spurred his steed forward to repel the
sortie.

He rode like a mad thing, galloping along the
uneven riverbank, crashing through reeds, splashing
through shallows, leaping stones and driftwood.
Whenever a soldier managed to stagger to the bank,
Adalon slashed and drove him back. Many were
swept away by the torrent, tossed and tumbled by the
white water until they were able to drag themselves
to shore.

Targesh rode and swung his axe as if he were
lopping wood. The Thraag soldiers flung themselves
away from his deadly passage, shouting in dismay.

Simangee used a short, stabbing spear, and it was
a blur in her hands. Any saur quick enough to avoid
her thrust found himself flattened by a whirl of the
spear butt.

The three friends kept the Thraag soldiers at
bay for what seemed like an eternity, but the enemy
continued to swarm into the river in their hundreds,
then thousands. Every time a soldier was beaten
back, three more took his place. Adalon galloped like
the wind, but he felt as if he were being swamped by
the river itself.

And all the time, in the middle of the desperate
business of thrusting, defending, battering, Adalon
had to devote some of his energy to resisting the call
of the A'ak. His sword and armour muttered to him,
tempting him to surrender to the blood rage that
would make him an unbeatable warrior. He refused
to be taken by the call and instead fought with a
cold determination, saving his strength as much as
he could.

He slashed at a gaunt Billed One, who squawked
and stumbled backwards, knocking over three
of her comrades. They were dragged away by the
white water. Adalon eased his steed up the bank and
surveyed the scene, taking a moment to draw breath.
Endless waves of soldiers were making their way
across and his heart sank. Then he saw that Targesh
and Simangee were dealing with a band of doughty
fighters who'd managed to haul pikes across the
river, and Adalon knew he should help.

It was then that half a dozen of the wading
soldiers disappeared. Adalon blinked. They'd simply
vanished, as if they'd all stepped into a deep hole at
the same time.

Other soldiers attempting the crossing noticed
the disappearance. They hesitated, struggling to
hold their place against the battering of the water.
The sergeants' shouting aroused them and, one by
one, they began to stumble forward.

Another vanished. Then another. This time
Adalon was staring right at him, a burly Horned
One who was ploughing through the white water,
head down and making good progress. He reached
halfway then he bellowed and flung up his hands.
He let go of the rope and was gone. Adalon was sure
he'd seen a dark shape under the water, but it was
hard to see through the churning flood.

Alarm seized the Thraag soldiers and the advance
slowed. They were reluctant to enter the river,
even though the officers shouted and the sergeants
prodded with spears. Gradually, they forced more
troops into the water.

The river became a nightmare of screams, roaring,
wild thrashing and soon the unmistakeable crimson
stain of blood. Ominous shapes moved under the
water, slipping between the soldiers and wreaking
havoc.

Adalon rode up and down the bank, but none of
the enemy managed to cross a river that was running
red.

'What is it?' Simangee asked when she cantered
up.

'I don't know. But I have hopes.'

Finally, a trumpet blast signalled a halt to the
Thraag attack. The officers drew the ranks back,
aghast at having lost so many in the crossing of a
minor river.

Then Adalon saw what had stopped them. A sleek
dark form broke the surface. It twisted through the
air and waved a wicked saw-toothed dagger at the
Thraag troops, then plunged back with a splash.

'People of the Deeps,' Simangee said in wonder.

Targesh rode up. 'Adalon!' he cried. He pointed
skywards. At the eastern end of the valley the sky
was dark with familiar shapes. 'The Winged Ones
have come!'

The next morning, Adalon, Simangee and Targesh
sat around a fire some distance from the main
camp. Earlier, they had been keeping an eye on the
picket lines, the exhausted troops and the tents of
the wounded, but once the camp had settled, the three
friends had withdrawn. They felt a need to be together
on their own, and also wanted to allow the troops some
time away from the scrutiny of their commanders.

Commander
. The title still felt like an awkward
burden on Adalon's shoulders. Most of the troops
were older than he was. Giving them orders was
sometimes difficult. Yet none of the soldiers questioned
his position.

Adalon found himself wondering if they were
following him or following the magical armour of
the A'ak.

After the battle, he'd grown suddenly tired of
wearing the metal protection and had abandoned
his armour to dress in light clothes. Without a word
being spoken, Simangee and Targesh followed his
example. Adalon decided that they, like him, were
prepared to suffer the cold to reassure themselves
that they would not fall under the influence of the
A'ak.

Time for conversation had been short once the
allies arrived. With the help of the Winged Ones
and the People of the Deeps, the weary troops from
Callibeen and Sleeto were able to push forward
and cleave a wedge through the dismayed enemy.
Assailed from the air, the water and the land, the
Thraag Army broke and ran. Soldiers flung weapons
away in their haste to flee.

Adalon gazed at Targesh's ruined profile. The
jagged end of the broken horn was a reminder of
the sacrifice that his friend had made. Adalon felt
that Targesh was more at ease, however, since he'd
brought the riders from High Battilon, and he was
well pleased. Their speed had been perfect for helping
to rout the enemy. Whenever a company of archers
had formed to attack the Winged Ones, the High
Battilon cavalry rode them down.

'You say your riders are willing to join us in the
Hidden Valley?' Adalon asked Targesh.

Targesh grunted. 'They're tired of living the life
of outlaws.'

'Good. We need to increase our strength.'

'We've staved off one threat,' Simangee said.

'But if Wargrach has taken Knobblond, are our
efforts in vain?'

'I don't know,' Adalon said. He shook his head.
'Perhaps we can work with the Queen of Shuff.' He
sighed. 'It's not the end. It can't be.'

'Perhaps we need more heads at work on this,'
Simangee said, nodding toward the two figures who
were approaching.

Hoolgar waved, the Crested One towering
over the fine-boned leader of the Winged Ones.
'Extraordinary,' he said when the unlikely pair drew
close to the fire. 'I never thought I'd actually meet a
Winged One' – he bowed to the Flightmother – 'let
alone the head of such an ancient and worthy clan.'

The Flightmother gave her thin, dry laugh. 'And
if I knew that such courtesy could be found in the
saur of the seven kingdoms, perhaps we would have
ended our isolation earlier.'

Adalon stood. 'I haven't had the chance to thank
you, Flightmother. Without you and your kin we
would have been lost.'

'The battle of Sleeto will live long in song and
memory,' she said. She warmed her hands in front of
the fire. 'We are sorry we took so long to come.'

'What happened?' Simangee asked.

'Strangeness is what happened.' The Flightmother
looked troubled. 'We had just reached the Skyhorn
Ranges when a mountain burst into fire and smoke
beneath us. No warning at all. A harmless peak, it
was, and then it became an angry thing. My people
were tumbled from the sky, assaulted by ash and
rock spewed from the maw of the furious mountain.
We were scattered, flung apart, choked by smoke.
It took us long to come back together.'

Hoolgar looked thoughtful. 'A mountain,
rupturing like that? This doesn't bode well.'

'But what to do now?' the Flightmother said.
'Where should we go?'

'Come with us,' Adalon said. 'The Hidden Valley
is hospitable. It has room for your Winged Ones.'

'And the People of the Deeps?'

'The Hidden Valley has rivers, lakes, and the sea
is nearby.'

The Flightmother clapped her beak. 'We shall
accompany you and inspect this Hidden Valley.'

Suddenly, the sky darkened. Adalon looked up,
then the ground began to tremble. Before anyone
could speak, the earth heaved like a living thing. A
vast grinding roar came from the depths. Adalon
stumbled and fell, climbed back up, then was hurled
down again as the ground bucked and rippled. His
shoulder struck a rock and he rolled, wincing. Dust
filled the air.

Eventually, the ground steadied. Adalon lay
there as the roaring echoed around the surrounding
mountains. 'Is everyone all right?' he called, and he
slowly rose to his feet, arms outspread in case of
another shock.

Dusty and scratched, his friends, Hoolgar and the
Flightmother reported no serious injuries. Adalon
rubbed his shoulder and decided that he'd escaped
with a nasty bruising.

Hoolgar inspected his glasses. 'I'm afraid this is
what we must be prepared for. Knobblond has fallen,
the balance has been upset. The land is in pain.'

'Look,' Targesh said, pointing.

In the distant north, a huge plume of smoke was
rising. Adalon realised he was seeing a fiery mountain
in the Skyhorn Ranges where none had ever been
before.

He hissed with dismay. 'Madness. It is Tayesha's
madness that is tormenting the land so.' Adalon
curled his hands into fists. 'We must stop her.
At all costs.'