The Missing Kin (3 page)

Simangee hopped from foot to foot with
impatience. 'Come on, Adalon, I have to show
you. You won't believe it otherwise.'

Adalon wasn't to be hurried. 'Targesh, can you
take Varriah to Bolggo? He should be able to find
her some quarters.' After the battle at Sleeto, Adalon
knew that the villagers there wouldn't be safe from
the Queen's revenge. Bolggo had been the innkeeper,
the most important saur in the village, and so he
had become the leader of the refugees as they made
their way across Thraag. Now they were safe in the
Hidden Valley, Bolggo still helped to organise their
everyday matters.

'Somewhere east-facing, I should think,' she said.
'I prefer morning sun. And not on the ground, I do
like a view. And . . .'

They left Targesh scratching his head at Varriah's
requests.

Simangee hummed as she went and Adalon was
pleased to see his friend happy. In their struggle, light
moments had been few.

They walked along corridors, up sweeping
staircases, through vast and echoing spaces, beneath
ceilings carved with strange and disturbing shapes.
Finally, Simangee stopped at a pair of double doors,
brass-coated and solid. 'I found it last week,' she
said.

'Before you'd grown bored with exploring?'

She smiled. 'I had better things to do. But now . . .'
She pushed open the doors and stood back, ushering
Adalon into a vast hall. Narrow windows filled the
space with light. The wood-panelled walls on either
side were hung with immense paintings in ornate,
gilded frames. Adalon stepped inside and his eyes
widened.

The hall was full of statues.

Dozens of figures stood in rows, a motionless
crowd, rank on rank of saur of all sorts. Adalon
hesitated, then he approached the nearest statue.

He was a towering Toothed One, made of black
stone that had a dull sheen, as if it had been oiled.
Frozen in mid-snarl, one hand extended, claws
grasping at empty air, he was twisting, caught in
the action of facing an unexpected enemy. Adalon
could see the muscles straining in his forearm and
the tension in his neck. 'Who is he?' he asked, aware
that Simangee had come near.

'I don't know. There's no inscription. But I'm not
sure if he's anyone in particular. Look.'

Standing next to the first statue was another
Toothed One, again caught with supreme skill. This
saur had claws raised and the muscles in her great
legs were bunched. She was clearly about to attack.

Adalon compared this statue with the first. She
was a different type of Toothed One, with less
massive jaws and much longer arms. She was smaller,
too, more compact.

Another Toothed One was on the left. This one
had an odd stumpy tail and short legs.

'They're all different,' Simangee said, gazing at the
ranks of statues. 'But see how all the Toothed Ones
are together, then all the Clawed Ones, all the Crested
Ones – lots of different sorts there – Long-necks . . .'

Simangee led Adalon past statue after statue.
Dazed by the running, twisting, leaping saur, he
soon lost count. Horns, crests, plates, claws – the
saur were all different, but all one.
Kin
, he thought.

Simangee stopped near the back of the hall and
pointed. 'And what do you think of
these
?'

They aren't saur
, was Adalon's first thought. Then
he looked more closely and wasn't so sure. Stories
from childhood came back to him. 'The Winged
Ones,' he breathed. He remembered the tales told
by flickering firelight of a time when the saur were
young, a time when the proud and aloof Winged
Ones were still part of Krangor. They rode the winds
and commanded the clouds, travelling great distances
when the whim took them. They'd vanished many,
many years ago but according to the tales, they longed
to be restored to the land they came from.

The Winged One statue Adalon stood before
reached his shoulder height. He studied the wings:
thin skin over bones that sprouted from the shoulder
blades of a well-muscled back. Long arms, well-clawed
hands, bones that looked fine, even spindly,
but Adalon could see stringy muscle stretched along
the limbs. The saur's face was bony, with a blade-like
crest and out-thrust chin. He had a massive chest.

Simangee grinned, enjoying Adalon's bafflement.
'Are you ready for another surprise?'

'I thought I was proofed against surprise. What
is it now?'

'Look at the next row.'

These statues were different again. Tall, slim,
some with elongated necks, some with stumpy
bodies, all had flippers instead of feet. 'The People
of the Deeps,' Adalon gasped.

The People of the Deeps had always scared young
Adalon. In the stories, they made their homes in
lakes, rivers and shallow seas, which sounded alien
to one raised in the mountains of the Eastern Peaks.
The People of the Deeps were as proud as the Winged
Ones. Slower to anger than their airborne cousins,
they never forgot a wrong and would seek revenge
for years. Sailors still carried charms to placate the
People of the Deeps and they told tales of having
seen their sinuous forms sporting in storms, either
trying to help a foundering ship – or dragging lost
sailors to their doom.

Simangee said, 'The Missing Kin: the Winged
Ones and the People of the Deeps. The ones who fled
Krangor an age ago and who are waiting to come
back home. These are the allies we're looking for.'

'Allies?' said Adalon. 'But we'd have to find them
first.'

'Hoolgar once told me that they still live. They're
out there somewhere.'

The old tutor from High Battilon had taught the
three friends much, and Simangee most of all. It had
been his suggestions that had helped Simangee find
the long-lost Hidden Valley.

Adalon reached out and touched the strong
features of one of the statues. As he did, a flash lit
up the room, a white brilliance that disappeared as
quickly as it came.

Simangee blinked. 'What was that?'

Adalon touched the statue again. Light flared
once more. 'It came from one of the paintings.'

When Adalon moved to the nearest wall, he saw
the gilt frames didn't hold paintings at all – they held
maps. Simangee joined him and, entranced by the
bold outlines of shore and mountain, they walked
along the unfolding display, seeing all Krangor in
front of them, charted and labelled.

Adalon stopped in front of the largest map, the
entire continent made visible by the skill of the A'ak
map-makers.

'I've never seen finer charting,' Simangee said.

Adalon knew his friend admired maps. The way
they made sense of the unknown appealed to her.
He peered at the fine lines and spidery characters.
'It's good?'

'It's masterly. It's someone putting their stamp on
the world, saying that
this
is how it is. It's Krangor
made real.'

Adalon looked again. The kingdom of Bondorborar
sprawled across the steamy north with
Virriftinar just to the south of it, jostling with Thraag,
which took up the south-west corner. Knobblond was
squeezed between Thraag and Virriftinar, a position
that had caused centuries of unease for its citizens.
The backbone of the Skyhorn Ranges divided the
continent down the middle. On the eastern side of
the range were the huge kingdoms of Chulnagh and
Shuff, and Callibeen in between.

Scattered all over Krangor were blue marks.
Adalon scratched his chin. 'What do these mean?'

Simangee peered at the map and pointed to the
south. 'Here we are, in the Lost Castle. It's blue,' she
said. 'Could blue mean A'ak settlements?'

Adalon chewed on this. If it was true, the hand
of the A'ak had stretched much further than they'd
supposed.

Simangee sighed. When Adalon looked, her face
was dreamy. 'So many types of saur,' Simangee said,
'all together on this ship of earth, sailing the wide,
blue ocean. Clawed Ones, Long-necks, Crested Ones
– all of us.'

Adalon nodded. The land was spread out in front
of him. Krangor, home of the saur. He sought for
and found the Eastern Peaks. His soul ached at the
sight, and even more when he found High Battilon's
lofty position marked. For a moment he could taste
the bite of the mountain air and he longed to be
home.

To stop his heart from bursting, he tracked north
from High Battilon, seeking the village of Sleeto and
the pass through the Skyhorn Ranges to Callibeen.
He shook his head. The village was too tiny to feature
on such a map, but he thought he could make out
the pass, a cleft in the mighty mountain range.

'Where are you, Missing Kin?' Simangee
murmured.

'If they're more than fairytales, they're well-hidden.
Then again, much of Krangor is still
unexplored.' He looked around the room, counting.

Fourteen maps hung on each side of the hall, with
the large map of the entire continent in the middle of
one wall. Each featured a region of Krangor: The Fiery
Isles, the long, ice-carved bays of southern Shuff, the
headwaters of the Astolet River in Knobblond . . .

Simangee hummed and strolled back to the statues.

A moment later, the dazzling light blinked on and
off. Adalon swung around. 'Where did that come
from?'

'I didn't see.'

'What were you doing?'

'Looking at the statues of the Long-necked
Ones.'

'Just looking at them?'

Simangee frowned. 'I ran my hand along the back
of one, just to feel the stone.'

Adalon took up a position at the far end of the
hall, looking back toward Simangee and the statues
– and the maps. 'Do it again.'

Simangee opened her mouth, but then closed it
and reached out for the statue of a haughty Longneck.

The map of Bondorborar flared with white light
and Adalon dashed to confront it. 'Again!' he cried.

Immediately, the map flickered and a sharp burst
of light lashed his eyes.

He rubbed his eyes and frowned, thinking hard.
Long-necks ruled Bondorborar. Their holy monarchs
had done so for millennia, happy in the swampy,
tropical jungles of the north. 'Magic,' muttered
Adalon. 'Try another statue. A Plated One this
time.'

Adalon stood in front of the map of Knobblond,
the small country ruled by the magnificently plated
Gorbrend family. He nodded in satisfaction when it
flashed. 'How old do you think those statues are?' he
asked Simangee.

She looked around. 'Old. As old as any of this
A'ak stuff.'

He paced to the largest map. 'We saur have spread
all over Krangor, haven't we?'

'Yes.' Simangee rolled her eyes. 'Is this
important?'

Adalon ignored her question. 'But each of the
seven kingdoms has always been ruled by a different
kind of saur, correct?'

'A Clawed One in Thraag, a Plated One in
Callibeen, a Toothed One in Chulnagh, a – '

'Enough, enough.' Adalon smiled. 'This is why
it's said that, long ago, Callibeen was the home of
the Plated Ones, Chulnagh the home of the Toothed
Ones . . .'

Simangee nodded slowly. 'Before we spread
throughout the land, mingling.'

Adalon pointed at the maps. 'When you touched
a statue of a Plated One, the map of Callibeen flared.
Callibeen. The home of the Plated Ones.'

'And when I touched the Long-neck, Bondorborar
lit up?'

'Exactly.' He pressed his hands together. 'I think
we're being shown the home of each saur kind.'

Simangee glanced at the statues of the Winged
Ones and the People of the Deeps. 'So we should be
able to find the home of the Missing Kin?'

Without a word, she ran to the nearest statue of
a Winged One. She hesitated for a moment, then
reached out and touched the mysterious figure. Light
flared, on and off. Adalon turned. 'Once more!' he
called.

Another dazzling blink of light and Adalon had it.
Simangee scurried up. 'Where is it?' she demanded.
'Where do they live?' She saw the direction of
Adalon's gaze. 'Oh.'

'The Fiery Isles,' Adalon said softly.

The map displayed the archipelago off the northeast
coast of Chulnagh, a handful of islands dropped
into the ocean like stepping stones. The islands were
rumoured to be hostile, a collection of dangerous
mountains thrust up from the sea, belching molten
rock and ash with furious regularity.

Adalon had never heard of any saur living there.
It was a place of dark repute.

He leaned close and studied the map. Reefs, rocks
and a league or more of cruel sea separated the Fiery
Isles from Krangor. He squinted and scratched his
snout. A thin blue line connected the nearest point of
the islands with the mainland. A reef? A sandbank?
He shook his head. The more he looked, the more
puzzles he found.

'Our story is growing larger,' he said. 'And the
Fiery Isles is another chapter.'

'Fiery Isles?' Targesh said. 'Long way to go.'
Adalon and Simangee had found Targesh
near the bakehouse with Bolggo and Varriah.

Bolggo's brow furrowed. 'These Fiery Isles might
be a long way away, but that's not going to get the
littl'uns fed. And what are we going to do about
the bridge over that river? Ramshackle old thing
'tis.'

'I'm sure you could organise some sort of a roster
to repair it,' Adalon said. 'You Sleeto saur are skilled
woodworkers, aren't you?'

'That's as may be, but what about – '

'Perhaps I can help,' Varriah cut in. 'As a steward
in the Queen's household, I managed many saur in
their daily duties.'

Adalon was delighted. Offering refuge to the
villagers from Sleeto had been important, but the
day-to-day business of keeping them well fed and
occupied was something Adalon hadn't anticipated.
'I'd appreciate that, Varriah.' He turned to the
innkeeper. 'Bolggo – Targesh, Simangee and I must
go. We may be gone some time.'

'Aye.' Bolggo glanced at the high walls of the Lost
Castle. 'This is a strange place. Some aren't happy
here. They want to go over the river to the valley
beyond and get those old farms working again. We
could use the fresh food.'

'That may have to wait until we get back.'

'Pish,' Varriah said. 'You go. I'll manage all that.'

'Traith and screets,' Targesh said. 'Black lurkers.'

'The Hidden Valley has some dangerous beasts,'
Adalon explained to a puzzled Varriah.

She rolled her eyes. 'If I can organise palace
guards, I'm sure I can keep a few villagers safe.
Go, go, don't wait around here.' Suddenly, her face
became solemn. 'You find allies to stop Thraag going
to war with Callibeen and I'll do what I can here.
Speed and safety be with you.'

Adalon hesitated, but Targesh shook his massive
neck shield. 'Trust her,' he rumbled. That was good
enough for Adalon. Targesh's instincts were rarely
wrong about saur.

'Gather what you need and we'll meet in the
armoury,' he said to his friends. 'We ride for the Fiery
Isles.'

Adalon hurried to his room, found his travelworn
pack and threw a few personal items into it:
a tinderbox, a whetting stone, a spare jacket, other
clothes. He took the set of iron and brass keys from
the washstand and placed them in his pocket.

He glanced around the room. A bed, a few books,
a table, a washstand. That was all. The Lost Castle
may be a refuge, he decided, but it was not his home.
He shrugged. The Way of the Claw taught him that
home was more than stone and wood.
Home is
where you belong
. For a moment, memories of the
Eastern Peaks came to him. He closed his eyes and
he could see snow on the mountains, smell wild
alpine daisies as they woke in spring, and feel the
bite of a mountain stream when he splashed it on
his face.

He shook off the memories. He had the present
to deal with.

Simangee and Targesh were waiting for him at
the armoury. Simangee was warbling a wordless
tune. She broke off when she saw Adalon. 'At last.'

'Sorry,' he said, and he opened the heavy wooden
door.

Inside the armoury, dim light filtered through the
few windows. Adalon wrinkled his snout, enjoying the
dusty, oily smell as he gazed at the racks of halberds
and pikes, the benches of metalworking tools, and
the blackened bricks of the forge in the far corner.

Against one wall stood a large metal cabinet. It
was dull black. Cunningly wrought metal vines and
leaves covered its surface.

Steeling himself, Adalon took the keys from his
pocket. Their power made the bones of his fingers
itch. He knew that a price would have to be paid
for using the magic and he didn't like it. The fickle
nature of this balance was one of Adalon's main
reasons for mistrusting magic. Sometimes the cost
far outweighed the benefit.

He banished such thoughts and used the iron key
to open the doors.

Even though he knew what to expect, his breath
was still taken away by what he saw. The interior of
the cabinet was impossibly vast, the racks on either side
receding into a foggy and indistinct distance, thousands
– no,
millions
– of suits of armour stretching away,
enough to equip an army the size of the world. Trying to
see where they ended made his head spin. He dropped
his gaze to the armour that was closest to the front.

Targesh smiled and reached for the emerald
green breastplate and greaves that hung on the right.
Simangee stepped into the cabinet so she could
retrieve her crimson armour from a rack just beyond
Targesh's equipment.

Adalon did not move. He was rapt, staring at
his sky-blue armour. Helmet, breastplate, gauntlets,
shield, were calling to him. He wanted to enclose
himself in the armour and enjoy the security it
brought. He yearned to wear it into battle where
it belonged. With it, he would be invincible.

He hungered for the sword. It hung from its
guard, point downwards, and called to him with a
voice that sang of triumph, courage and fame. Even
before he touched it, he could feel its hilt in his hand,
where it deserved to be.

His tail whipped from side to side. He had not
worn the armour since the battle of Sleeto but he
had not gone a day without thinking of it.

The jewel-bright armour and sword thrilled him.
He had felt like a hero of old as, clad in the sky-blue
plate, he fought the Queen's troops. His sword had
been strong and his arm tireless. It was glorious. He
paused as he remembered the roaring that had filled
his ears when he fought, how he'd begun to think he
was one of the A'ak from the past.

Adalon glimpsed his distorted reflection in the
mirror-bright shield and shuddered. His face was
eager, almost greedy. He took a deep breath and the
moment was broken.
I am not your slave
,
A'ak sword
,
he said to himself.
I will use you, not you me
.

He grasped the weapon. It was beautifully
balanced, light in his hand, almost demanding to
be used. Adalon smiled wryly and thrust it into
the scabbard that was hanging on the rack. He took
the helmet and put it on.

The three friends helped each other with buckles
and straps. They moved easily, with long familiarity
born from hours spent training with arms and
armour at High Battilon. Adalon marvelled at how
well each piece fitted into place, as if the armour had
been made especially for them.

Soon they were arrayed, three jewel-like figures.
Targesh did not wear a helmet, protected as he was
by his massive neck shield. Simangee's helmet was
curiously wrought to fit her crest. It was a towering,
crimson beacon.

Adalon felt as if he'd donned garments of fine
linen, so light was the armour and so easily did
he move. He clenched a fist and shook it. 'To the
stables.'

In the stalls, their brass riding beasts stood
as immobile as statues. Products of the mighty,
mysterious A'ak magic, they whirred to life when
Adalon used the brass key. Snorting and stamping
with the sound of a hundred cymbals, the riding
beasts shook themselves, alert and ready for their
masters.

Adalon led his steed into the courtyard, followed
by Simangee and Targesh with theirs. The villagers
remaining in the castle gathered when they heard
the brassy din, eyes wide, cheering the three metal
warriors. Some came to windows and balconies,
interrupting tasks and wiping hands on aprons.
Adalon raised his hand. 'We go to find allies!' he
cried, and the villagers roared their approval.

With that, Adalon kicked his heels. The brass
steed snorted a crashing blast and sprang toward the
gates, hoofs thundering on the stones.

With his friends close behind, Adalon's spirits
soared. After weeks of inaction, it felt good to be
doing
something again!