The Missing Kin Read online

  '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 ma
p 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.'

  Seven

  '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!

  Eight

  Three days after leaving the Lost Castle, Adalon had had his fill of riding.

  Simangee, Targesh and he stretched out around a campfire in the thick woods on the south bank of the Dondor River, the border between Chulnagh and Shuff. Adalon ached all over and it felt good to have the armour off. He had sharp twinges in his thighs and the base of his tail. He grimaced as he lay back and watched sparks whirl up past the mountain beeches. 'How far is it, Simangee?'

  She sighed. 'About the same as when you asked me last time. Two more days, maybe three.' Simangee had volunteered to navigate and had brought a number of maps she'd found in the Lost Castle. She spent much of her rest time in poring over the ancient charts.

  Given the speed of the mighty brass riding beasts, they'd chosen to risk crossing the Skyhorn Ranges through the Sleeto Pass. Adalon knew Queen Tayesha could have scouts in the area, but rounding the ranges at the north or south would add weeks to their journey.

  Through good fortune, they encountered no-one as they thundered through the mountains. Adalon was sombre, though, as they rode past the burned-out ruins of the village of Sleeto. It had been a happy place, and now it was a reminder of what could happen when war touched the innocent.