The Missing Kin (9 page)

'The Winged Ones left Krangor,' Targesh rumbled,
'but did they leave it all behind?'

The Flightmother clacked her beak twice and
stared at Targesh, first with one eye and then with
the other. 'We are exiles,' she said slowly. 'We were
driven from our home by the A'ak, but we have found
a new home here. We have forgotten Krangor.' She
crossed her arms on her chest and looked out over
the ash-strewn land in front of them. The smoking
mountain groaned and a thin arc of molten rock
plumed from the highest vent.

'Krangor hasn't forgotten you,' Simangee said.
'The Missing Kin, you are called. You are in our
songs and stories. Our little ones hear of you and
wonder where you are, where you've gone.'

'Tcha!' the Flightmother said. 'Stories for little
ones? What are stories worth? We tell our little ones
stories, too, about what the A'ak did to us.'

'You tell these stories so your people won't
forget,' Adalon said.

'We will never forget what they did to us,' the
Flightmother snapped.

'Just as you must never forget where you came
from,' Adalon said.

'Krangor,' the Flightmother whispered. 'The
land.'

'Help us,' Adalon urged. 'Help us and return to
your ancestral home.'

'Yes,' the Flightmother said. She straightened.
'The Winged Ones will come home.'

To spare the three friends the laborious undersea
journey, the Winged Ones used their nets to
fly Adalon, Simangee and Targesh to the mainland.
Without being trussed and bound, Adalon found he
was able to enjoy the moonlit flight. The light on the
waves made them look as if they were brushed with
silver. The clouds overhead scudded across the sky like
playful beasts. The horizon rolled back as they climbed
and the world expanded, growing immeasurably vast
in all directions. He began to understand the joy the
Winged Ones felt when they soared across the sky.

They were brought to where they had left their
magical riding beasts. Kikkalak inspected the brass
steeds with interest before bidding the three friends
farewell, promising to return in the morning.
Yawning and weary after a long day, Adalon waved
to the Winged Ones as they glided over the waves,
back toward the smoking mountain that sheltered
their home.

The next morning, after a short sleep, Adalon
opened his eyes to find they were surrounded.

In the bright morning sun, he rolled to his feet and
stared. The Flightmother stood with a host of armed
soldiers, polished and preened, leather-armoured,
carrying spears and bows. They looked solemn and
determined.

The Flightmother smiled at Adalon. 'So, this is
Krangor,' she said. She lifted her unshod feet up and
then dug into the sandy soil. 'The Winged Ones are
home again.'

'Krangor welcomes you,' Simangee said. She
bowed grandly. 'And so do we.'

'We've promised to aid you,' the Flightmother
said. 'Where should we meet?'

'Meet us at Sleeto,' Adalon said. 'The Thraag
Army must pass through it on their way to invade
Callibeen. It's the best place to stop them.'

'Here,' Simangee said, thrusting a map in front of
the aged Winged One. 'It's the sole pass through the
Skyhorn Ranges.'

The Flightmother glanced at the map and
nodded. 'We can find it. Winged Ones are good at
finding their way.' She gazed at the lush jungle that
surrounded them. 'This is a pleasant land. I'm glad
we're helping to save it.'

Simangee nudged Adalon and gestured. Standing
toward the rear of the warriors were a number of
saur who were clearly not Winged Ones.

They were much taller than their winged kin. At
first, Adalon thought they were Long-necks, but their
bare barrel chests and webbed hands announced
they were something different. When they smiled,
their teeth were needles.

'Ah!' said the Flightmother when she saw Adalon's
astonishment. 'You haven't met our cousins before,
the People of the Deeps?'

Adalon shook his head. 'We are living in a time
when legends stalk the land. It is a foolish saur who
says "Such and such cannot be" for he will turn a
corner and find the object of his disbelief staring
at him.'

The Flightmother chuckled. 'The People of the
Deeps were treated even worse by the A'ak, so they are
even more secretive than we Winged Ones. Only a few
were prepared to leave their watery homes to join us.'

Simangee saluted the needle-toothed warriors.
'We welcome you to the struggle.'

The tallest of them returned the salute with a wave
of his long, slender webbed hand – a hand that Adalon
thought looked almost like a flipper. 'We swimmers
look forward to the adventure,' the aquatic warrior
said in a hissing voice. 'And the chance to see Krangor.
You speak of legends, but the seven kingdoms are a
legend to us!'

Adalon was pleased to have more allies, but he
frowned. 'How will you get to Sleeto? It lies in the
mountains, not the sea.'

The swimmer laughed. 'We will fly, of course.'

'Fly?'

'People of the Deeps usually hate nets, but not
when they are borne by our winged friends. We will
relax, comfortable, and be carried to battle.'

'Excellent!' Adalon turned to the Flightmother.
'We will bring what forces we can muster and meet
you in Sleeto.'

He climbed into the saddle of his riding beast. As
he did, the steed whirred to life. It shook itself and
stamped its brass hoofs. Adalon's hand brushed the
hilt of his sword. He found himself lamenting that he
hadn't used the blade for a long time. He wondered
when he would feel it sing in his hand again.

Adalon shook himself, throwing off the cunning
magic of the weapon. 'It's not for you to say,' he
muttered under his breath. He took the reins and
saluted as advance scouts of the Winged Ones
wheeled overhead. When his friends were ready, he
broke into an easy canter, then a full-blooded gallop
as his riding beast tried to race the wind.

***

Three days of hard riding later, Adalon signalled
a stop high in the Skyhorn Ranges. Below, on the
other side of Snowmaiden Lake, was the village of
Lod. Bulking solidly against it was the castle of High
Battilon.

'Home,' Targesh said, leaning over his saddle,
but Adalon was concerned at how his friend's face
was gloomy rather than excited.

'I've been patient,' Simangee announced, 'but
now you must tell me what we're doing here. If
you're expecting a friendly welcome from Wargrach,
I think you'll be disappointed.'

Adalon grinned. 'Not all the saur in the Eastern
Peaks will have fallen in with Wargrach. They won't
have forgotten what he did to their lord, my father.'

Simangee rubbed her face. 'You're looking for
recruits.'

Adalon slapped Targesh on the back. 'Loyalty
lives. Isn't that what the Way of the Horn says, old
friend?'

'Aye,' Targesh said, brightening. 'It does.'

Adalon was pleased to see Targesh's reaction.
Perhaps there was something here to restore his
friend's spirits.

Adalon lashed the flank of his riding beast with
the reins and it bounded down the narrow path.

The road to the castle of High Battilon was
quieter than Adalon had ever seen it. No villagers, no
labourers, no wagons making their way to market.
The farmhouses looked abandoned, but enough of
them showed smoke from chimneys to indicate that
saur were still living in the fertile farmlands.

The streets of Lod were almost empty, but the
passage of three brilliantly armoured saur galloping
through on noisy brass riding beasts brought saur to
doorways and windows to gape.

The castle stood on a ridge over the village.
Adalon didn't pause. He urged the tireless brass
steed toward the gates. At that moment he didn't
care if Wargrach were in residence or not. His blood
was up and if his father's killer were there, his crime
would be dealt with.

Slouched on either side of the gates were half a
dozen ill-favoured saur. Like the villagers, they gaped
at the three metal riders on their metal steeds. Four
threw down their weapons and fled. The other two
slunk inside the castle.

'Ignore them!' Adalon cried. The three friends
were inside the gates before the guards could
bring down the portcullis. They burst through the
gatehouse and into the courtyard. Adalon had
expected to find Wargrach's saur ready to defend
the castle, but the open area was empty apart from
an astonished-looking Plated One who was standing
at a well, dusting flour from his apron.

Adalon trotted his steed up to the Plated One.
'Where is everyone?'

The Plated One's eyes were huge and round as
he stared at Adalon and his friends. 'Everyone?' he
echoed.

'The troops. Wargrach.'

'Gone. They've gone to war, they have.' He
nodded emphatically and a cloud of flour puffed
from his apron.

'Callibeen,' growled Targesh. 'Gone to join the
Queen's Army.'

'No, no,' the Plated One said. He was well fed,
with a number of chins. All of them wobbled as he
spoke. 'Knobblond. The general's gone to war on
Knobblond. Said he wanted it as a present for Queen
Tayesha.'

Adalon was thunderstruck. With the Queen's
Army moving toward Callibeen, he'd expected
Wargrach to add his strength to hers as a show of
support. But Wargrach must have felt confident that
Callibeen would fall; joining his forces to Thraag's
would benefit him little. But if he conquered
Knobblond, the Queen's gratitude would be great.
Wargrach would be in favour once more.

Adalon was torn. What to do? His allies were
flocking to Sleeto to block the Queen's invasion of
Callibeen. He couldn't leave them by themselves.
Knobblond will have to look after itself
, he thought,
but his heart was heavy. Knobblond didn't deserve
to fall.

'Wargrach has taken all the troops?' Simangee
asked the Plated One, who was staring nervously at
the great brass steeds.

'All he could.' The Plated One looked disgusted.
'He left a few behind, he did, but none who were
any good.'

Adalon's tail thrashed. 'Lord Moralon. Do you
know where he is?'

'Last I heard he was in the dungeons somewhere.
That was a long time ago, though.'

The dungeons of High Battilon had not been used
at all while Adalon's father ruled. They'd been flung
open to light and air, becoming a playground for the
three friends. They were a place to hide and explore
– but when Adalon led the way down the familiar
twisting staircase, they found it was a playground
no longer. The evil-smelling warden took one look
at Adalon's bright blue armour and handed over
the keys. Cell after cell was full of saur from all
over the Eastern Peaks. Anyone who had resisted
Wargrach's rule had ended up in the dungeons to
rot. Once the doors were unlocked, the prisoners
dragged themselves from the cells, astonished to see
the return of the true heir to High Battilon.

The last cell, the darkest and dankest, held
Adalon's uncle, Lord Moralon. He was a pitiful sight.
He was not manacled, nor had he been beaten from
what Adalon could see. It was his spirit that been
broken, not his body. He sat on the edge of a crude
bed, his head in his hands, his tail hanging limply. He
didn't look up as Adalon threw the door open.

'Uncle,' he said. 'It's Adalon.'

Moralon did not reply.

'You're free, Uncle,' Adalon said. He went to the
side of the frail, shaking figure. 'You can leave.'

Moralon looked up. He showed no surprise
at seeing his nephew. 'I failed you, Adalon,' he
whispered. 'I dishonoured our family and betrayed
my own brother. I am a poor, wicked saur.'

'Uncle.' Adalon patted him on the shoulder and
struggled to find the right words to comfort him.
'I wish things had gone better for you.'

His uncle lowered his head again. He began to
weep.

Simangee went and kneeled by his side. After a
moment she looked at Adalon. 'He needs time to
heal.'

'He can't do it here,' Targesh said. 'Wargrach will
return soon.'

'We'll take him to the Lost Castle,' Adalon said.
'He can ride double with me.'

'Let me stay here a while,' Targesh said suddenly.
'There must be good saur around who didn't give
in to Wargrach. I'll find 'em. Give 'em a chance to
strike back.'

Adalon gazed at his friend and saw how important
this was to him. Action of this sort could be the best
medicine for Targesh's hurts. 'We'll meet you at
Sleeto, two weeks from now.' He gripped Targesh's
forearm. 'Be swift, but be safe.'

Targesh smiled slowly. 'See you in Sleeto.'

Late on the second day of their ride, Adalon and
Simangee emerged from the secret tunnel under
the smoking mountain. They galloped through the
Hidden Valley to the Lost Castle.

Moralon had barely spoken during the whole
journey from High Battilon and Adalon was deeply
concerned. It was most unlike his uncle, a saur
who had been full of wit and high spirits before
the murder of his brother. He was glad to hand
Moralon to Varriah, who met them inside the gate
of the Lost Castle. She looked perfectly calm and
assured, as if she regularly welcomed armoured saur
at midnight.

The next morning, over a hasty breakfast, Varriah
reported to Adalon and Simangee. She had a bundle
of papers in her hand. 'We have three wagons, but
no riding or draft beasts, so you'll have to haul them
yourselves. I've assembled enough provisions for
your company and they're all armed and armoured,
even if they're inexperienced. Farmers and miners
from Sleeto, mostly.' She wagged a finger. 'I'd
appreciate a little more notice next time. I've had to
work through the night to get this ready.'

'How many have volunteered?' Simangee asked.

'Thirty,' Varriah answered.

'Thirty,' Adalon repeated. He'd hoped for more.
'Perhaps we can recruit on the journey.' He tapped
the table with a claw. 'And my uncle? How is he
after a night's rest?'

'Not well. He has eaten little, and hasn't spoken
much. His spirit has been broken, I'd say.'

Adalon sighed. He felt that Moralon was better
off now, yet wondered what the future held for
him.

***

The march to Sleeto was maddening. Adalon was
frustrated at the slow pace of his small company and
longed to give his magical steed its head. Dragging
the wagons slowed the saur considerably, despite the
roads being in good condition thanks to the efforts
of Adalon's father. He worried that his estimate
of a two-week journey had been optimistic. They
laboured along, lifting wagon wheels out of ruts and
putting their shoulders behind carts to help them
over rough patches.

As they went, they began to pick up volunteers
– stragglers and the dispossessed who'd been
driven from their farms and homesteads by either
Wargrach's cronies or Queen Tayesha's Army. These
saur had been living in the woods and fens, in small
bands or in solitude. Most had been staying alive
by living off the land, and were lean and suspicious.
From them Adalon gathered that the main body of
the Queen's Army was still some days away, but
advance scouts were creating havoc. The scouts had
been arrogant in their demands, ignoring protests
and taking whatever they wanted. Any lingering
loyalty to the Queen was quickly vanishing thanks
to such tactics.

Adalon itched to reach Sleeto. He worried about
the Winged Ones and Targesh's recruits. He worried
about Targesh's broken horn, what could be done for
him, and whether he would make it safely to Sleeto.
Simangee had no doubts. 'He'll be there,' was all
she said whenever Adalon fretted aloud. He worried
about Moralon, too, and hoped that Varriah would
take good care of him.

His tail thrashed constantly.

At noon on the fifteenth day of their march, they
reached the point where the road to Sleeto began to
climb toward the mountains. Simangee tried to hitch
her riding beast to one of the wagons to help pull it up
the slope, but the beast refused to cooperate, simply
freezing in place and becoming the statue it so much
resembled. The ragged dispossessed who'd joined
the company volunteered to act as draught beasts
and the wagons were slowly hauled upwards.

Even though the air grew colder, it was hot, hard
labour. Adalon pitched in, straining to push wagons
that stubbornly seemed to find every pothole in the
road.

A halt was called at a particularly difficult bend in
the road. Adalon sagged against the wagon wheel and
wiped dust from his brow. Suddenly, Simangee leaped
onto the wagon and peered back down the mountainside.
'Adalon!' she cried. 'Targesh! He's coming!'

Adalon straightened, feeling a twinge in his back.
He stared back down the twisting road to see a
company of saur on riding beasts approaching from
the south. He made a rough count of four dozen.
'Are you sure?'

'It's him! See the brass steed?'

There was no mistaking the giant riding beast and
the massive figure in green armour astride it. Adalon
called a halt. Wheels were chocked to prevent the
wagons rolling back down the road. Saur threw
themselves onto the springy grass at the roadside
and stretched their aching muscles.

Soon, the riders approached. Adalon hailed his
friend. 'It's good to see you, Targesh!'

Targesh grinned and Adalon was pleased to see
delight on his friend's face. 'High Battilon still has
courage, Adalon!' He gestured at his band of saur.
'And the best riding beasts in Thraag!'

Targesh dismounted and joined Adalon and
Simangee. He gripped their forearms. 'Good to see
you,' he said. 'Took us a bit longer than I thought.'

Adalon didn't mind. He was simply happy to see
his Horned One friend again. He gave the order for
the company to start marching again. With renewed
spirits from having reinforcements, the saur applied
themselves with vigour. The wagons began to rumble
uphill.

Targesh dismounted and walked alongside his
friends. He told of finding small bands of saur in
the forests surrounding High Battilon. They'd been
raiding, skirmishing against Wargrach's troops,
barely avoiding capture again and again. They'd
been glad when Targesh had appeared and offered
them the chance for real battle.

'And so here we are,' Targesh said.

'And here
we
are,' Simangee said, pointing
ahead.

The swelling company had crested the final rise
and directly in front of them was the Fist, the towering
rocky outcrop that loomed beside the entrance to
the small valley where Sleeto lay. This small valley
was the only route through the otherwise impassable
Skyhorn Ranges. In the clear, cool air, Adalon could
see the road winding down into sparse greenery
strewn with rocks, a pocket nestled among the peaks.
The sun shone on a tiny lake and a wild, young river
with water like quicksilver. At the eastern end of the
valley was what had been the village of Sleeto.

Adalon's heart sank. He hadn't realised how
much he'd been hoping that their allies would be
waiting for them. 'No Winged Ones.'

'What's kept them?' Simangee wondered. 'They
should be here by now.'

The sword at Adalon's side quivered. He put his
hand on its hilt and felt a surge of something like
hope. 'We shall prevail, with or without them.'