The Missing Kin (5 page)

For an instant, the old female's eyes flicked wider.
Then the dull mask fell into place again. 'The Old
Way is the only way.'

Before Adalon could say anything he was lifted
off his feet again and thrust through the doorway
into a vast open space.

He was surprised at the light. Twisting his neck,
he was able to see that much of the roof was missing.
At first, he assumed it had simply fallen, but the
perfectly circular gap looked too deliberate for that.

Pulling himself around as much as he could,
he tried to see where he was. Tiers of stone seats
surrounded a flat area in the middle of the huge room,
and these seats were filled with silently watching
Horned Ones. Pillars stood evenly around the space,
supporting the roof. He tried to guess the purpose of
the place. A governing chamber? A hall of debate?
A theatre?

His heart pounded as he was dragged further into
the room. In the soft light he could see that the floor
gave out onto a wide, circular area like a gigantic well,
its sides made of stone. He was thrown to the floor.

Adalon strained every muscle to break free. He
arched his back and sought for any slack in the ropes.

The old female came into Adalon's vision, but
she ignored him. She turned to the opening in the
floor. She raised her hands. 'Old One! Your people
have gifts for you!'

She ascended the stairs, joining the rows of bleak-faced
spectators. The timber doors boomed closed
and Adalon heard the iron clanking of a large bolt
being drawn shut. 'Targesh!' he called. 'Simangee!'

'I'm here!' Simangee cried, a distance to his left.

'Me too,' Targesh rumbled nearby on his right.

Adalon squirmed until he could bring his thumb-claws
to work on the ropes. They were hard to
shred, the fibres being damp and dense, but he
applied himself energetically. He didn't like being
bound and helpless, unable to use his Clawed One
speed or agility. He tried not to think of himself as a
neatly wrapped present, but the thought refused to
vanish. He ignored it as he hurried, certain that at
any minute the strange Horned Ones would appear
and bind him again.

Finally, he used his teeth along with his thumb-claws.
The rope was rank and sour in his mouth, but
he managed to stop it slipping about. He worked
his claws deep into the heart of the rope – slicing,
sawing, his thumbs aching – until he was through.

He struggled, shrugging the loosened ropes over
his shoulders, then he was free. He winced at the
bruises and rolled to his feet.
They won't catch me
again
, he thought.

Adalon's tail sagged. The Horned Ones hadn't
moved. They remained in place, tier upon tier, gazing
down at Adalon as if his struggles and escape were
of no interest at all.

For an instant, Adalon wondered if he were in
a dream, so strange was this behaviour, then he
shook off the feeling. His friends were in trouble. He
hurried to Targesh, who was trying to bite the net.

'Stay still,' Adalon ordered and in an instant he'd
freed his friend.

'Good,' grunted Targesh, climbing to his feet. He
glared at the rows of blank faces. They stared back
at him, barely blinking. 'What do they want?'

Adalon rushed to Simangee, but she'd managed
to free herself. 'How . . . ?' he began.

She plucked a dagger from the folds of her tunic.
'I was prepared,' she snapped.

'I thought we were supposed to leave our weapons
behind.'

'I thought a knife would be handy,' Simangee said.
With a flick of her wrist it disappeared up her sleeve.
'I wish I could have reached it earlier. They would
have regretted dragging me around like that.'

Targesh growled, loud in the silent arena.
'Trouble.'

Adalon turned and saw that his friend was
standing on the edge of the well-like opening, looking
at the water below.

'The door, Simangee,' Adalon said. She raced to
it. Adalon joined Targesh. His tail whipped from side
to side as he tried to control his Clawed One blood.
Flee or fight: choose wisely or you may never choose
again
, he told himself, reciting one of the lessons of
the Way of the Claw.

The shaft was a good stone's throw across; the
water was two or three fathoms below the rim.
Where the sun from the open roof struck, the water
was murky green, churning, heaving and subsiding.

'It's no good,' Simangee said. Adalon glanced and
saw she was holding her useful dagger. 'The doors
are bolted from the outside.' She stared at the banks
of Horned Ones. 'What are they waiting for? What
sort of Horned Ones are they?'

Targesh growled. 'They're not true Horned Ones.'
He managed to look distressed and angry at the same
time. He clenched and unclenched his fists. 'Taking in
strangers and treating them like this? It's bad.'

Concerned by his friend's anguish, Adalon
gripped his shoulder and sought to reassure him.
'Don't worry. They're rogues. We'll get out of here
and put some miles between them and us.'

Targesh shook his head. Adalon wanted to
say more, to make things easier for his friend, but
comfort was a stranger in this place.

Simangee muttered to herself.

'What is it?' Adalon asked.

She grimaced. 'I think we're in another A'ak site.'

At that moment, the water in the shaft surged
upward. Then it dropped with a crash, bursting
and sending spray in a fountain. Simangee cried
out. Adalon slapped water from his face. Targesh
bellowed with surprise and all three reeled back
when a huge figure exploded from the depths, water
and weed cascading from its rocky hide.

For one horrid moment, Adalon thought the stone
monster from the Lost Castle had pursued him. This
creature, too, looked as if it had been roughly carved
from stone rather than born, but it was larger – much
larger. An enormous, featureless head sat on hulking
shoulders. Its mouth was a ragged hole. It pushed
itself up from the shaft until it projected through the
open roof. Its massive arms and hands dangled by
its sides.

Adalon hissed and grasped for the sword that
wasn't there. He stood on his toes, ready to move, to
flee, to attack, to do
something
.

'A'ak magic,' Simangee spat. She held her dagger
in front of her, puny in the face of such a gigantic
foe.

The monster lowered its head, bringing its
grotesque face to bear on them. Then it shook,
dislodging mud and water. It groaned, a deafening
sound that rattled Adalon's bones, then it groped for
them with one misshapen hand.

Adalon back-pedalled, barely avoiding one of the
pillars that supported the roof. The creature grunted
and leaned forward. Adalon feinted right, then moved
left. The creature was puzzled, but caught itself and
then swung, backhanded, at him. He threw himself
to one side and the creature's fist whistled past.

'Adalon!' Simangee cried, but that only brought
her to the creature's attention. It clawed at her.
Simangee scrambled backwards.

'The pillar!' Adalon called. 'Get behind it!'

Simangee crawled until the solid stone was
between her and the creature. It leaned forward and
used both hands to try to grab her. She struck with
her dagger, but it had no effect.

Targesh roared. He lowered his head and charged
at the creature's arm. It cocked its elbow, then jabbed
at him. Targesh was sent flying and crashed against
the wall. He picked himself up, dazed and struggling
for breath.

Adalon raced toward the creature from behind,
his thumb-claws itching. If he could spring onto its
shoulder, perhaps he could slice at something that
held it together.

The creature continued to paw at Simangee. She
was thrusting and slashing with her dagger, but only
drew sparks instead of blood. Finally, the dagger
broke and Simangee let out a cry of disgust.

His Clawed One blood afire, Adalon surged
forward in great bounds, then leaped onto the
creature's left arm. It shrugged, as if bothered by
an insect, then it batted at him with its other hand.
Adalon was ready, but one foot slipped on the
creature's water-slick hide. He had enough time to
throw up his hands before it hit him.

Numbly, distantly, while his head rang like a gong,
Adalon wondered if this was what being struck by an
avalanche felt like. He tumbled over and over, limbs
and tail flailing, then he, too, slammed against the
wall. For a moment he lay on the floor writhing in
pain, but he soon realised the pain was mostly from
being winded. He dragged himself up and stood,
swaying, trying to order his thoughts.

A roar split the air. For an awful moment he
thought the creature had managed to catch Simangee.
Then he realised that the sound came from Targesh.

His friend was standing to one side of the monster,
just beyond its reach. His legs were firmly planted,
his arms spread and his head was lowered in the
challenge stance. For a Horned One, the challenge
stance was the declaration of defiance when all
looked lost. If this challenge failed, if the foe refused
to retreat, the Great Charge would follow, the last
desperate effort to uphold the Way of the Horn.

Adalon wasn't about to let his friend face this
alone. He tottered toward him, determined to stand
shoulder to shoulder.

Then Targesh did something Adalon did not
believe possible.

With a great bellow of anguish, his friend seized
his right horn with both hands. Another cry ripped
from Targesh's throat, a cry of horror, agony and
immense loss, as he twisted and pulled. A loud
crack
and his horn broke near its base.

Targesh dropped to one knee, clamping down
on the roar that threatened to burst from his throat.
Blood streamed from the ruined stump of his horn
and ran down his neck shield. He threw back his
head and howled, but managed to climb to his feet,
cradling the broken horn. He took two ragged steps
toward the monster.

Staggering, Targesh drew back his arm. He
paused a moment and, through the mask of blood,
Adalon could see the agony on his friend's face.
Then Targesh threw the broken horn as if it were a
spear.

As soon as it left his hand, the broken horn
burst into flame. It hurtled at the monster like a
thunderbolt. With the sound of a thousand cymbals
it struck, and the creature shattered.

Adalon ran toward Targesh, ducking the
fragments of rock that were flying through the air.
His friend was on his knees, head bent, eyes shut,
groaning. He sagged as Adalon took hold of him
and it was only the arrival of Simangee that stopped
the Horned One from tumbling into the water.

Adalon blinked in the sudden light that came
from where one whole wall had been knocked down
by the monster's demise. Targesh lifted his head a
little and opened one eye. 'Gone?'

'Yes,' Adalon whispered. 'But what have you
done?'

'What I had to,' Targesh said and his eyes closed.

With some distaste, Wargrach studied the two
saur standing in front of him. One was a Longneck
with a hand missing. The other was a Plated
One with a hideous scar across his brow. 'I need
information,' he said to them. 'What have you found,
Varchog?'

The Long-neck twitched – a horrible jerking
action. 'Well, my lord, it's been difficult – '

'I don't want to know about your troubles. I want
to know what's going on.' Wargrach hadn't provided
chairs in the tiny, windowless room off the main
banqueting hall, just to keep the two saur uneasy. He
was perfectly happy propped on his tail, arms crossed.
'And you, Irjag? What can you add? You've had
plenty of time to cement your position here in High
Battilon. Now I'm back, I want your news.'

The Plated One swallowed and glanced at
Varchog. 'My lord. We did your bidding. When you
left High Battilon after removing Lord Ollamon
we came and found lowly positions. I'm in charge
of the castle gardens. Varchog has been travelling
through the Eastern Peaks and the rest of Thraag as
a grain merchant. No-one suspected that we were
your agents.'

Wargrach snorted. 'I hope not. Spies who are
known to be spies are useless. Remember that I
rescued you after your discharge from the Army.
Remember that I ensured your wounds were tended
to. Remember that you would have died and been
buried in unmarked graves if it weren't for me.'

'Of course, my lord,' Varchog said hastily. He
shifted from foot to foot. 'And we are striving to do
your bidding.'

'We do have some information, my lord,' Irjag
added. 'We've recruited a few young saur and we've
sent them out to gather others to your service.'

'I know.' Wargrach had seen their recruits. His
jaw clenched with disgust. In the past year, the saur
of High Battilon and the neighbouring village of
Lod had never accepted his rule. While never openly
rebelling, they managed to find small ways to frustrate
his plans. Some had actually fled to the forests and
were living as outlaws. The local 'recruits' were the
few layabouts and malcontents in the community.
Wargrach thought them poor quality at best.

Varchog twitched again. 'We've begun contacting
our old agents, re-establishing your web of spies.
They're starting to send experienced saur, and
they're telling us that the Queen's preparations are
continuing.'

'It's a huge mobilisation,' Irjag put in. 'Ten new
battalions have been added to the Army.'

'Ten thousand new soldiers.' Wargrach scratched
his empty eye socket. It itched, but he did it mostly
for the effect it had on his two spies.

He pondered the news. Tayesha had not
abandoned her plans, but he knew that the Queen
would have difficulty in achieving her goals without
performing the full and complete ritual. He'd given
her many manuscripts and old tomes over the years
to help her construct the correct sequence of the
ceremony, but he'd always kept certain knowledge
from her.

'Go,' he barked. 'I need more. I need more saur
ready to serve me here at High Battilon. I want to
know exactly when and where the Queen's Army is
planning to move. I want to know who is in charge
and I want to know
everything
about them. If you
can't tell me what they eat for breakfast, it will be ill
for you.'

The two saur stared, then bowed and hurried
out.

Wargrach waited a moment, then left by another
door.

He stalked through the corridors, head down,
deep in thought. Despite the difficulties Varchog and
Irjag had whined about, the old network of agents
and spies that Wargrach had established over the
years was slowly knitting itself back together. His
preparations were bearing fruit.

He stopped when he reached the corridor leading
to his quarters. A young Clawed One stood on
guard. His weapons were bright, his posture proud.
'All quiet, soldier?'

The guard nodded. 'Nothing to report, my lord.'

Wargrach grunted, limped on and entered his
chamber.

His living quarters were in a little-used part of the
castle. Wargrach had chosen them for that reason,
ignoring more luxurious rooms in favour of quiet
and security. A simple bed, a scarred table and a
washstand were the only furnishings, with a battered
trunk standing at the foot of the bed. The stone floor
was bare and the single window was small, looking
out over the barracks.

It suited him. Comfort was a sign of weakness in
modern saur.

He rummaged around and found a sheaf of papers
in his trunk. He smoothed them out on the table.

His customary caution had prompted him to
remove these pages from the books he'd given
Tayesha; he was wary of giving too much information
to anyone. But underneath that motive was a deep-seated
unease at anything to do with the A'ak.

Wargrach had been privy to many secrets over the
years. He cultivated them as a farmer might cultivate
truffles, knowing that some of them could stay
hidden for years. In that time, he'd grown interested
in the A'ak. At first, he'd been attracted by their fierce
reputation as warriors, then he grew concerned at
their utterly alien attitude to life and death. Wargrach
never admitted he felt fear, but the more he learned
about the A'ak, the more troubled he was.

He stared at the pages he'd kept. All of them
mentioned the A'ak. Many were mysterious,
speaking of the link between the land and the saur,
but in elusive and roundabout ways. Wargrach had
little patience for such mystical stuff, but one of
the parchments – one he'd stumbled on years ago
– hinted at the return of the A'ak.

It was a single page, battered and water-stained.
It was obviously the conclusion to a much longer
document. Toward the end the tone of the writing
changed from dry and detached to what Wargrach
could only describe as terrified. The script became
rushed, as if the writer was running out of time. It
finished shrilly, with confused warnings of stone
monsters, the advance guard for the A'ak.

The prospect made Wargrach grind his sharp,
predator teeth. The A'ak would be a formidable foe
indeed. He growled, deep in his throat, a natural
Toothed One reaction to a threat. Then he began to
think.

Toothed Ones were not renowned for their
cleverness. Their strength lay in their willingness to
fight and not give in. Toothed One military tactics
usually favoured the all-out, life-or-death charge
into the face of the enemy.

Wargrach was different. He knew that strength
was important, but cunning was just as useful. Staring
at the ancient writings that foretold the return of the
A'ak, his devious mind began to race.

If the A'ak were to return, surely they would need
an ally, someone who knew the best way to exploit
the saur of Krangor?

Slowly, Wargrach began to smile.