The Missing Kin (6 page)

Around Adalon, Targesh and Simangee, the Horned
Ones were transformed. No longer were they
sitting blankly watching. Some were slumped in their
seats, others had their heads in their hands. Many were
crying wretchedly or embracing. A few had been injured
by flying debris when the Old One shattered, and they
were being tended by saur who seemed grateful for
something to do.

The doors were thrown open wide by guards
who stumbled in looking both dazed and horrified.
At this, the Horned Ones stampeded from the tiered
seats, an avalanche of bellowing saur, maddened with
shame and shock. With anguished cries, they crushed
through the doorway and escaped into the ruins.
Even the wounded couldn't bear to stay behind, and
they were carried by willing helpers.

'They're ignoring us,' Simangee murmured. She
was kneeling by Targesh's side, stroking his brow.
'We should go.'

The bleeding had stopped, but Adalon's heart
sank at how pale his friend was. 'Wait.'

A sole figure remained on the tiered benches.
Slowly, she stood, the old female Horned One. She
lurched down the aisle, skirting a large chunk of rock
that had come to rest near the front rank of seats.
She, too, was changed. It looked as if the weight of
a thousand years had fallen on her shoulders: her
back was bowed, her scales were dull, her skin was
loose and sagging. Adalon saw this in an instant, but
all these details seemed unimportant when he came
to her eyes. They were haunted, full of suffering –
the suffering that comes from guilt, shame and
dishonour.

She blinked at Adalon and reached out a hand.
'I . . . we . . .' She looked away, but when her
gaze touched the watery shaft in the middle of the
chamber, she shuddered and turned back to the three
friends. 'I feel as if I've just woken from a dream.
A bad dream.'

Targesh groaned. 'Our friend needs help,' Adalon
said.

The old female stared at Targesh's ruined horn
and shook her head in wonder. 'Such a sacrifice.'

'Will he be all right?' Simangee demanded.

The old female faltered. 'I don't know. When we
were enslaved by the creature born of A'ak magic, it
took our Horned One heritage. The things we have
done . . .' Her hands opened and closed, groping.
'The Way of the Horn is lost to us. We are nothing.'

She reached for Targesh, but drew back before
touching him. 'We are nothing,' she repeated.

Adalon tried to imagine living without the Way
of the Claw. Its guidance was a firm foundation for
conducting his life. Its precepts defined what it was to
be an honourable Clawed One. He could understand
why the Horned Ones would feel lost without their
Way.

'The Way of the Horn is not lost to you,' he said.
'You need to remember, to learn its wisdom again.
Take your people and leave this place. Find Horned
Ones and ask them to take you into their herd.'

The old female glanced at him, then at Targesh.
His eyes were closed, and his hands moved, groping
at nothing. 'Can we redeem ourselves?' she said.

'That is up to you,' Adalon said.

The old female looked at the ranks of empty
benches around them.

'Go,' Adalon said. 'Your people still need a
leader.'

Without a word, the old female turned and
lumbered off.

Adalon stood. With Simangee's help, he lifted
their massive friend. They stood on either side of
him and draped his arms over their shoulders.

'I'll paddle the canoe,' Simangee said when they
reached the landing. 'You take care of Targesh.'

It was an effort, but they eased their stricken
Horned One friend into one of the few remaining
canoes. It was barely more than a wreck, with
water sloshing around inside. Adalon was glad that
Targesh was in no condition to see how dilapidated
it was.

Once on shore, they settled their friend on a
patch of dry grass. Adalon was torn. He wanted to
put some distance between them and the treacherous
villagers, but Targesh was in no condition to travel.

He strapped on his armour, wanting to be prepared
if the villagers came back. 'Can you do anything for
him?' Adalon asked Simangee.

'I brought some healing potion. It might help.'
She shook her head. 'Poor Targesh. He was so proud
of his horns.'

'If it weren't for him, we may have ended our
quest in this misbegotten place.'

Simangee rose and went to her saddlebags. She
took out a vial and one of the maps. 'Ah.'

'What is it?'

'This place is marked – it's another A'ak site.'

'Are you sure?' he asked. She pointed to the map.
Adalon peered and saw a faint blue mark.

Simangee turned her attention to Targesh, gently
tipping the contents of a small vial into his mouth.

Targesh groaned – a deep, rumbling sound – then
swallowed and opened his eyes. 'Adalon.'

Adalon dropped to one knee. 'How do you feel,
old friend?'

Targesh raised himself on one elbow. The bleeding
had definitely stopped; the stump was ragged and
crusted with drying blood.

Simangee grinned. She handed Targesh a cloth.
'Here. Clean yourself up.'

Targesh stood. He swayed a little and Adalon
moved to his side, ready to support him. 'Don't,'
Targesh grunted. 'I'm well enough.'

He went to the edge of the lake. While he washed
himself, Adalon joined Simangee. 'Is he?'

'Well enough? Who knows.' She tossed the empty
vial in the air and caught it. 'The potion worked.
The bleeding has stopped and he doesn't seem to be
in pain.'

He wouldn't admit he was, anyway
, Adalon
thought. 'But he's not himself.'

Simangee shrugged. 'It must be a shock to lose a horn.
And to do it to yourself? I couldn't do such a thing.'

Another matter had been troubling Adalon.
'That creature, the stone giant. It was of A'ak origin,
wasn't it?'

'Most surely.'

'Like the one that was guarding the Foundation
Room at the Lost Castle.'

Simangee looked at him thoughtfully. 'Yes.'

'For a long-lost race, the A'ak are making their
presence felt, aren't they?'

'Ah. You've felt it too?'

'I thought I was being foolish.' Adalon shrugged.
'But we seem to be living in momentous times.'

'Weighty events are in train,' Simangee said,
'but while they are, we mustn't overlook what is
happening closer to us. I think Targesh may need to
talk.'

'Targesh? Talk?' Adalon smiled a little. 'I'll give
him a chance. It's the least I can do.'

Adalon went and crouched at Targesh's side on
the shore of the lake. The Horned One winced as he
wiped around his eyes.

'Are you fit to travel?' Adalon asked.

Targesh didn't look up from studying the muddy
water. 'Of course.'

Adalon sought for comforting words. 'We owe
you our lives. Thank you.'

Targesh nodded, but said nothing.

'Your horn. Will it grow back?'

'No.' Targesh's face was hard. 'Horns don't.'

'What happens?'

'I'll cap it. Gold, silver.' He glanced at Adalon.
'It isn't a mark of dishonour.'

'No. It wouldn't be.' Adalon flipped a pebble into
the lake. The rings spread, widening until they were
lost in the expanse of water in front of them. 'If it's
no dishonour, why are you so ashamed?'

Targesh flinched, then he turned his head to
regard Adalon. 'Those Horned Ones.' He paused,
measuring out his words as if he had a limited store
of them. 'Look what they became. If it could happen
to them, it could happen to me.'

Adalon understood his friend's fear. Without the
guidance of the Ways, could the base, primitive nature
of the saur come to the fore? 'Not you, Targesh. You
know what is right, even without the old lessons.'

Targesh considered this for a moment. 'Aye. Some
things are plain.' He rubbed his hands together, then
stood. 'I'm ready.'

Adalon nodded. 'It may be best if we wore our
armour. For a while.'

'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.