The Lost Realm Read online

  The bear had looked peaceful.

  Melchior looked like he was dying.

  “It’s no good,” said Tarlan, leaning down toward the water. “I’ve got to get him out.”

  “Wait more,” croaked Theeta from behind him.

  It took all Tarlan’s willpower to stop himself from plunging his hands into the silver pool and dragging Melchior clear.

  Oh, Mirith! What must I do?

  His hand went to his throat, seeking the green jewel the dying frost witch had given him.

  But the jewel wasn’t there.

  Neither was Mirith.

  Mirith may be dead, but Melchior isn’t. Not yet. Mirith told me to find him, and now he’s told me to wait. Theeta’s right. I just have to be patient.

  But it was so hard.

  He turned his attention back to the dull white stones embedded into the black walls of the crater. Melchior had promised that as his powers returned, the stones would begin to shine, just like the star constellations they represented.

  They don’t look any different to me.

  Feeling glum, he took a strip of dried venison from his pouch and chewed it disconsolately. His supplies were getting low. He’d managed to keep warm at night by nestling with the thorrods, and had stopped his legs seizing up by walking endless circuits around the perimeter of the stone platform. But if he stayed here much longer, he was going to go mad.

  Large wings obscured the light filtering down from the crater’s mouth, high above, and suddenly Nasheen was there, landing silently beside her two thorrod companions. Concerned for his friends, Tarlan had sent her to check on the members of the pack who hadn’t been able to make the journey across the sea to the Isle of Stars.

  “Wolf moved,” Nasheen said in her scratchy voice. “Tigron moved. Bear moved.”

  “They’ve moved? Moved where?”

  The short feathers on Nasheen’s brow flexed into something resembling a frown. This was quite a speech for a thorrod.

  “Not sand. In trees.”

  Tarlan nodded in satisfaction. So they’d taken cover in the thin strip of woodland flanking the beach. That was smart. They’d be safe there.

  He looked back at the pattern of white stones on the wall. Still no change. He sighed. Absently he scratched his hand. The gashes made by Brock when he’d first encountered the bear in his cage had scabbed over, but they were itching terribly. He thrust his hand down into the water, wanting nothing more than to cool the skin.

  The itching turned to tingling. Realizing what he’d done, he snatched his hand out of the lake. He looked at the skin, suddenly afraid.

  The gashes were gone. Where they’d been, there were no scars.

  The water had healed him.

  “I don’t believe it! Theeta, did you . . . ?”

  Turning, he saw his thorrod friend pecking at the bandages on her injured foot. The fabric had come loose during the flight from Isur, and now the angry scar on the stump of her missing talon was clearly visible.

  Filled with sudden inspiration, Tarlan called her to the edge of the pool.

  “Put your claws in the water,” he said.

  Theeta clacked her beak nervously. Had he ever known this gigantic bird to be nervous before? Tarlan didn’t think so.

  “It’s all right. It’s perfectly safe.”

  He touched his hand to the tip of her lethal beak.

  Slowly, Theeta dipped her injured foot into the pool. She kept it there for a moment. Tarlan held his breath. Then she withdrew it.

  The scar was gone. Theeta’s stump was smooth with newly polished scales. The talon was still missing, but all signs of infection had vanished.

  “Good foot,” Theeta cawed.

  “Yes!” Tarlan laughed. “Good foot!” He stared around at the blank white stones with renewed hope.

  If the water does that to a hand—or a claw—what might it do to a whole body?

  What might it do to a wizard?

  “Come on!” he shouted at the walls. “Come on! Show me!”

  A crash of thunder swallowed his words. The storm had grumbled throughout most of the previous day, so that Tarlan had begun to think that thunder and lightning were normal weather conditions for the Isle of Stars. But this morning he’d woken to find the sky quiet.

  Now the storm had come back.

  Lightning tore across the top of the crater. Its glare shattered the surface of the silver water, and for a moment Tarlan believed the storm was raging not in the sky but in the hidden depths of the pool.

  “We’re going to get wet again!” he shouted to the thorrods.

  One of the white stones lit up.

  Tarlan stared at it slack-jawed. Excitement fizzed through his veins. He thought he heard more thunder, but it was only the sudden pounding of his pulse in his ears.

  Another streak of lightning ripped through the sky, through the water. A second stone flashed bright, then a third. Rain began to lash Tarlan’s face, but he didn’t care.

  “Melchior!” he yelled, dancing on the spot. “Melchior!”

  The silver water had turned choppy. Was the weather causing it, or something else? Glittering froth obscured his view of the submerged wizard. Had Melchior moved? He couldn’t tell.

  Thunder roared, then died, leaving a sudden silence in which Tarlan heard a new sound, very faint, very distant.

  Somebody shouting.

  More thunder. Skeins of lightning crisscrossed the sky. It was as if a giant had cast a net of light over the whole island. Again that eerie calm.

  Another white stone winked into life, and another. A pause, then a frantic flurry of light as brilliance burst from one stone and leaped to the next, to the next, to the next. Dazzled and bewildered, Tarlan watched as a hundred stones started to burn, then a thousand, an intricate web of stars blazing from the night-black rock.

  Again he heard shouting.

  “They come,” croaked Theeta.

  Tarlan tore his gaze from the stones. “Who? Who comes?”

  Theeta shrugged her massive wings. “See not.”

  Tarlan wanted to shake her. The thorrods were so smart, and yet had no imagination whatsoever.

  But incredible ears.

  “What do you hear?” He managed to get the question out before the thunder returned.

  “Many come! Many cry!”

  “Come from where?” asked Tarlan. Apart from the fishing village they’d glimpsed, the beach had been deserted.

  “We go!” Theeta threw out her wings. Her black eyes were filled with urgency. Behind her, Kitheen and Nasheen were already in the air.

  Torn by indecision, Tarlan hovered at the edge of the pool. Melchior had told him to stay and keep watch. But if Theeta was right—and hadn’t he heard the shouts himself?—people were coming.

  They mustn’t find Melchior.

  He raced across the platform and sprang onto Theeta’s back.

  No sooner had the three thorrods emerged from the crater than the wind picked them up and flung them out over the sea. Fighting to keep hold of the stiff gold feathers encircling Theeta’s neck, Tarlan steered her in a rapid circuit of the island. All the way around he peered down through the driving rain.

  The island was deserted.

  “Where are they, Theeta?” he cried.

  “Big wood!” shrieked Nasheen.

  She swooped out to sea. Instinctively the other thorrods followed. Lightning cut through the looming gray clouds, illuminating something enormous wallowing in the storm-tossed waves. Tarlan had never seen anything like it before, but he recognized it all the same.

  It’s a ship!

  Mirith had told him about such things. Wooden constructions much bigger than mere dugout boats. Ships were so big they were like floating villages, self-contained vessels on which people might live for months as they traveled from one side of the ocean to another.

  “They have masts,” the frost witch had told him, “and sails to catch the wind.”

  “What are masts?” Tarlan
had asked.

  “They are like trees.”

  “And sails?”

  “Like the wings of a thorrod.”

  The ship he saw now was every bit as big as he’d imagined, but the waves tossed it like a piece of driftwood. Tarlan drew in a sharp breath as it veered toward a ridge of toothlike rocks jutting from the water. Then, with a sudden surge, it rushed past them and into the shallows, heading straight for the Toronian shore.

  It’s going to crash, Tarlan thought. It was close enough now that he could see the bustle of activity on board. The sail furled like a conjurer’s trick, the ropes that held it vanishing into the gaping mouths of a row of gargoyles on the ship’s outer rail. Sailors in brightly colored robes raced efficiently across its deck, cranking handles and closing hatches.

  Not crashing—landing!

  “Theeta,” he cried. “To the beach!”

  Rain stung his face as Theeta swerved, leading the three thorrods around the ship, then dived toward the shore.

  They touched down as the ship slid up the sand with a low, hissing sound that set Tarlan’s teeth on edge. Just when Tarlan thought it would tip onto its side, two pairs of jointed legs unfolded, their flattened tips splaying on the sand to hold it steady. Now, instead of a ship, it looked like a huge insect.

  A wooden walkway lowered from the front of the ship onto the beach. A group of men and women made their way down it. Their brightly colored cloaks were soaked through and tossed about by the wind, but Tarlan could see that they were embroidered with patterns—diamonds and circles, flowers and leaves.

  “Not home,” cawed Theeta softly.

  “You’re right,” said Tarlan, sliding down her wet flank. The people now staring across the sand at him and the thorrods didn’t look like they were from Toronia at all. Mirith had once told him about merchants who traveled from land to land, ships laden with goods for sale. That must be why they’re here, he decided. As long as they stay away from the Isle of Stars, that’s all that matters.

  He strode to meet them.

  “You won’t find much trade here,” Tarlan called. He held his arms wide, gesturing at the empty beach.

  The men and women halted a few paces away from him.

  “Trade?” said a broad-shouldered man with a neat beard and a bald head. He wore a long red cloak. “We don’t come to trade, boy. We come to take.”

  Tarlan frowned. “Take what?”

  “Toronia.”

  Tarlan stared at him, stunned. He shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  A woman in a grass-green cloak gave him a strange smile. “Galadron can conquer anywhere. The reach of our empress is long.”

  Tarlan gave a snort of disbelief. They’re fools, he thought. There couldn’t be more than twenty of them on the beach; his pack could take them out in moments.

  “Well, you won’t get far,” he said. “First you’ll have to get past Lord Vicerin’s forces in Ritherlee. Before you can take Isur you’ll have to defeat an army called Trident. Oh, and did you know that Idilliam is overrun by an army of walking corpses, with the undead king Brutan in command? If I were you, I’d turn around now and go back to . . . where was it you said you were from?”

  “Galadron,” said the woman in green.

  “Galadron.” Tarlan tried out the strange syllables. “Where’s that?”

  “Across the seas.” The woman crouched and scooped up a handful of sand. “But soon this land will be Galadron too.”

  The man in the red cloak scowled. “Enough, Lieutenant Dryssa,” he snapped. “We don’t have time to stand here listening to this filthy barbarian boy.” He pointed to the thorrods waiting patiently farther up the beach. “He runs with the animals, for the empress’s sake!”

  The woman flushed. “I apologize, General Tyro.”

  Tarlan stared at Tyro with narrowed eyes. “You have no idea who I am.”

  “And you have no idea who we are!” The man threw back his cloak and drew a vicious, curved blade.

  Immediately Brock charged out of the rocks at the edge of the beach. Greythorn and Filos sprinted out too, Greythorn’s howl sounding over the noise of the storm. The wolf and tigron flanked Tarlan, Brock rearing up onto his hind legs. Tarlan was pleased to see General Tyro’s eyes widen.

  “Is this a threat, boy?” he said.

  “It’s a suggestion.” Tarlan was struggling to keep his temper at bay. “Go home. There’s nothing for you here.”

  General Tyro laughed. “Why would we leave,” he said, “when we have barely begun to arrive?”

  Tyro and the other Galadronians turned west to face the sea. Tarlan looked too. The storm clouds had shifted from the color of charcoal to a thick, dreamy purple. On the horizon was what looked like . . . trees?

  Not trees, Tarlan realized, remembering the word Mirith had taught him. Masts!

  He watched, his blood turning cold, as the clouds dispersed completely and the hazy line of masts resolved itself into a vast fleet of ships. They seemed to fill the sea, surging relentlessly toward shore. Tarlan cursed himself. Had he really thought these few wretched sailors were the only ones to have set out from Galadron? How could he have been so stupid?

  “You tell us that Toronia is torn open by war,” General Tyro went on. His blade flashed in the bursts of lightning. “Do you think we do not know this? Do you think we have no intelligence? No spies? Do you think we would come all this way unprepared?”

  One of the Galadronian ships was very close now. Its hull was narrower than the rest, and it sat low in the water. Its sail was an immense red triangle piercing the flaming sky. Long oars worked the water, pulling the slender vessel effortlessly through the white-capped waves.

  A tall man came to the rail—the ship’s captain, Tarlan supposed. He wore copper-colored armor under his cloak. On his head was a red peaked helmet. Behind him, a line of soldiers, similarly garbed, stood to attention.

  The captain raised his right fist. The Galadronians on the shore returned his salute.

  “Welcome to Toronia, Admiral Merello!” Tyro bellowed. “I trust your voyage went well?”

  “Better than yours, General. I avoided the worst of the storm. Shall I order the rest of the fleet to anchor offshore?”

  General Tyro’s answering laugh was entirely without humor.

  “There will be no putting to anchor!” he shouted. “The fight to take back Toronia begins now! We will rest only when the first lights of the enemy have been extinguished!”

  All eyes—Tarlan’s included—followed Tyro’s finger as it pointed south along the shore, to where a cluster of lamps flickered in the dim dawn haze.

  The village!

  Horror filled Tarlan.

  “You can’t attack them,” he said desperately. “What did those people ever do to you?”

  “They are barbarians,” said Tyro. “They stand between us and Idilliam.”

  A little way up the beach, the first wave of ships had already made landfall. Unlike Merello’s slender vessel, most of these had wide, square hulls. In front of their treelike masts was a squat turret. As the ships rode up the sand, ramps swung down from their bows. They looked like mobile castles, each with its own drawbridge.

  Tarlan watched, appalled, as soldiers swarmed out of the ships. Their faces spanned all the shades between black and white, and the cloaks they wore over their coppery armor were all colors of the rainbow. At least half of them rode horses decked in golden armor. In the silky dawn light, the Galadronians were dazzling.

  Tyro eyed Tarlan. “What weaponry do you think our troops will face? Fishing nets, perhaps? Or lobster traps?” He gave Tarlan a shove. “Now fly away with your forest friends, boy, before we kill you all.”

  Tarlan’s rage boiled over.

  “I am no boy!” he shouted, addressing not just Tyro but everyone in earshot. “I am Tarlan, son of King Brutan, born one of three! I have the right to stand here. You don’t!”

  Tyro’s expression didn’t change.

  “Y
ou, a prince?” he sneered. “Not just filthy but crazy, too! So all this”—he swept his hand around in a circle—“belongs to you?”

  “No,” Tarlan replied. “But it certainly doesn’t belong to you!”

  He drew his sword. With blinding speed Tyro lashed out. The back of his hand struck Tarlan’s chin. Bright stars exploded in Tarlan’s vision and he reeled over backward, his head spinning. With a bellow of rage Brock swiped one of his massive paws at Tyro. The bearded man leaped back just in time to avoid the blow, although Brock’s knifelike claws slashed his billowing cloak to ribbons.

  “Theeta!” Tarlan yelled, scrambling to his feet. “To me!”

  All three thorrods were already in the air. Filos and Greythorn were in motion too, driving into the enemy soldiers, howling and biting as they went. Tarlan grinned fiercely as the Galadronians scattered.

  Three soldiers ran up to Brock, their short swords raised. Brock dropped to all fours and charged straight into them before they could strike a blow. Two of the men crumpled like rags, their bodies instantly limp; the third Brock crushed underfoot. Theeta landed hard beside Tarlan, dipping her head until her beak scraped the sand. Tarlan grabbed her neck ruff with his free hand and sprang up onto her back. Even as he jumped she was pushing off with her claws. Her huge, gold wings pounded the air, creating tiny tornadoes of sand as she powered her way up into the sky.

  “Bad humans,” Theeta observed.

  They made straight for Brock, who was up on his hind legs again, battering at the circle of horsemen now surrounding him. Theeta dived into their ranks, slashing with her talons and scattering the enemy.

  Gold feathers flashed nearby, bright in the dawn light, and Tarlan saw Nasheen and Kitheen following Theeta’s lead. The two thorrods rose and fell, rose and fell, and with each new dive another line of Galadronians collapsed onto the sand.

  But the invading ships were still arriving, a seemingly endless parade of vessels riding out of the ocean and onto the beach. Sails furled, ramps descended, and hundreds more horses poured out. Their riders wore the now-familiar blend of riotously colorful cloaks and brandished a dizzying array of swords and spears. And for all the ships that had beached here, at least as many had made straight for the village, plowing through the rows of houses that stood on stilts out in the water. Flames were beginning to rise from some of the buildings on the shore, and tiny shapes were scurrying to and fro like ants. Tarlan could hear distant screams.