The Lost Realm Page 7

  Elodie watched with mounting horror as the Vicerin soldiers moved swiftly among the Trident ranks, disarming the green-clad soldiers and forcing them to their knees.

  “What are you going to do with them?” she blurted.

  Before Stown could respond, a man rode up on a huge black horse. He was almost skeletally thin, his skin as dark as mahogany. Adorning his Vicerin uniform was an array of gold brocade and a pair of gleaming medals. He glared down at Stown as his mount champed restlessly.

  “Captain Gandrell,” Stown muttered. “I wondered when you’d show up.”

  “I have been here all along,” said Gandrell. His piercing green eyes flicked to Elodie. “Princess, are you in good health?”

  Elodie knew she was gaping, but she couldn’t help it. Captain Gandrell had been a familiar figure throughout the thirteen years she’d lived at Castle Vicerin. If he wasn’t drilling soldiers in the battle yard, he was standing watch on one of the towers or consulting with Vicerin himself in the council chamber.

  A face from my former life, she thought faintly. The first I’ve seen since being taken from Ritherlee.

  With a deep breath, she gathered herself. “I am very well, Captain Gandrell,” she said. “What kept you?”

  The thin man’s eyes remained unreadable. They always had been. Elodie remembered Gandrell as being tough on his troops but always entirely fair. “There is no straighter arrow than Gandrell,” Lord Vicerin had said once.

  Will he be fair now?

  “You will ride with me, if it pleases you,” Gandrell said.

  “She’ll ride with me,” said Stown, with the tone of a petulant child. “Lord Vicerin put me in charge of the mission, or had you forgotten?”

  Captain Gandrell regarded him, stony-faced, then turned his attention back to Elodie. “I have orders—that is to say Sergeant Stown and I have orders—to take you straight to Lord Vicerin. This we will do, as soon as we have dispatched the rest of the Trident rabble.”

  “No!” cried Elodie.

  Gandrell raised an eyebrow. “Which aspect of these orders does not please you, Princess?”

  “I’ll come with you. But there can’t be any more killing.”

  Stown snorted.

  “I have my orders,” said Gandrell. “None are to be spared. This is Lord Vicerin’s wish.”

  Elodie looked out across the clearing. The men and women who’d fought beside her—fought for her—knelt defeated, their faces exhausted and empty.

  Fessan’s head was still hanging, which meant she couldn’t see his face at all.

  “But they’re no threat,” she insisted, aware of the panic in her voice. “Look at them. They’re tired and hungry and injured. They’re—” Elodie searched for a phrase this military man might comprehend. “They’re a spent force.”

  “Wounds heal,” Gandrell replied. “Tired men may sleep, and awaken refreshed.” He spurred his horse and drew his sword. “Enough talk! The time has come!”

  “Stop!” From her tunic pocket Elodie snatched the arrowhead Samial had given her—and pressed it against her own throat.

  Gandrell’s eyes widened with shock. “Princess, what are you doing?”

  “If you kill them,” Elodie said, “I die too.”

  Fessan raised his head. His eyes were full of pain. Beside the wagon, Samial’s ghostly face looked paler than ever. All around, both Trident and Vicerin soldiers were watching to see what would come.

  “Why would you save this rabble?” Gandrell said. “Tell me, Princess. I am very curious.”

  “I’m sick of bloodshed,” said Elodie truthfully, still holding the arrowhead steady. “I’ve seen enough for a thousand lifetimes. Now, what message would you take to my father? That you have destroyed Trident? Or killed his daughter?”

  Captain Gandrell gazed at her for a long, appraising moment. At last he dipped his head.

  “It will be as you ask, Princess. No harm will come to them.’ ”

  Stown cursed and spat on the ground. Captain Gandrell ignored him.

  “Lay down your weapons!” Gandrell yelled at the Trident ranks. Some did as he said, but others looked around in confusion or gripped their swords as if still unwilling to concede defeat.

  “Looks like we’ll have to kill them anyway,” growled Stown.

  “No you won’t,” Elodie snapped. “Fessan—tell them!”

  Fessan’s eyes locked briefly on Elodie’s. His trembling chest heaved. Then he called out:

  “Do it! The battle is over.”

  The Trident soldiers began to murmur. Then, slowly, those who still carried their swords gave them up. Elodie fought back tears as Gandrell sent his blue-cloaks to gather up the Trident weapons. Unarmed, the Trident troops were gathered in the center of the clearing, where the Vicerin soldiers forced them to sit with their hands on their heads.

  Meanwhile, more of the Vicerin men tore down the tents. The Trident camp was soon a waste ground of scattered bedding and the few scant belongings the wandering army had managed to gather. Everything that would burn was stacked and set alight. Three of the wagons were filled with Trident’s weapons, appropriated now for use by Lord Vicerin. The sun had barely begun its descent into the afternoon before all trace of the Trident camp—except for its miserable inhabitants—had been destroyed.

  Elodie cast one last look back at her defeated Trident friends. Those who returned her gaze looked either dazed or hateful.

  Let them hate me, she thought sadly. At least they’re still alive.

  “Time to leave, Princess,” said Gandrell.

  She tried not to flinch as he helped her onto the bench at the front of one of the wagons. “No,” she said quickly when he made to sit beside her. “A lady does not ride with a soldier.”

  The only company she could bear for the journey to come was Samial’s. Her friend perched beside her and she gripped his cold fingers.

  “Have I done the right thing, Samial?” she whispered. It was too late now. The wagon lurched and the convoy began to depart. As it rolled through the trees, a sleek gray mare drew level with Elodie’s wagon. She glanced up and saw that its rider was Stown. He leered down at her, and something in the malevolence of his grin made Elodie look back.

  Marching behind him came a trio of Vicerin soldiers. Held between them, gagged and chained, was Fessan.

  Elodie felt cold. “What are you doing with him?”

  “We might have left the rest to rot,” sneered Stown, “but not this one. We’ve got other plans for him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, it’s very simple, Princess. Your friend’s coming with us. I can’t wait to see what Lord Vicerin will make of him. Can you?”

  CHAPTER 6

  The wings of the three giant thorrods beat a steady, silent tattoo against the air, driving Tarlan and Melchior on toward the coast. Below them the dense Isurian forest was a tangled green carpet. Above hung a faint smear of light: the comet.

  “You can see it in the day now!” Tarlan shouted across the expanse of air between the flying birds.

  “It grows brighter as it comes closer,” the wizard called back, “and will grow much brighter yet.”

  Mirith had told Tarlan about the stones that occasionally fell from the sky, blazing hot. He’d sometimes watched their white trails in the night but had never actually seen one come to ground.

  Is that all the comet is? he wondered. Just a big stone?

  But it was more than that, he knew. The comet was somehow wrapped up with Melchior’s powers. It was strange. Perhaps the comet wasn’t glowing with light at all. Perhaps it was glowing with magic.

  As evening cast a blue shroud over the trees, Tarlan guided the thorrods down toward a stand of ancient oak trees.

  “Land by that stream,” he said to them. “The water should be fresh and the trees will be good cover.” He grinned across at Filos and Greythorn, nestled together on Kitheen’s black back. “As for you two—I bet you can’t wait to stretch your legs!”
>
  Tarlan was right. The instant the thorrods touched down, the wolf and the tigron cub leaped from Kitheen’s back and bounded off into the trees, ears pricked, nostrils flaring.

  “Good hunting!” Tarlan laughed.

  The three thorrods dug a shallow scrape near the tree line and flopped into it, clearly exhausted. Tarlan went to each of the huge birds in turn, stroking their beaks and smoothing their feathers.

  “Greythorn and Filos will bring you fresh meat. Try to stay awake until they get back. Melchior, do you want to fetch the firewood, or shall I?”

  But when he turned around, the wizard was hurrying away from the clearing, making his way over the stream. His grubby yellow robe was bunched up under his armpits, exposing scrawny white legs. For an instant Tarlan thought he was walking on water. Then he saw the stepping-stones lying just beneath the surface.

  “Where are you going?” he called.

  “I saw a village. There will be an inn.”

  After spending a whole day flying through the fresh, uncluttered air of Toronia, Tarlan felt cleansed. The last thing he wanted was to throw himself back into a crowd of noisy, smelly humans. He gazed around the little clearing.

  “It’s nice here,” he said wistfully.

  “Yes, but we are not just travelers, Tarlan.”

  “We’re not?”

  “No, we are here to learn.”

  “We are?” Tarlan’s heart was sinking.

  “Of course! How can we solve the many problems which undoubtedly lie ahead if we are not fully informed about them? Besides, you will one day be king, Tarlan. There is no better place for you than among your people!”

  Grumbling under his breath, Tarlan picked his way across the stream and followed Melchior into the trees on the other side.

  Do you know how annoying you are, old man?

  Ten paces ahead, the wizard chuckled to himself. Tarlan’s skin prickled as he considered the possibility that Melchior could read his thoughts.

  The village was tiny and, like most human settlements, looked odd to Tarlan’s eyes. Having grown up in a cave high on a cold Yalasti mountain, he’d never really understood people’s compulsion to cut up natural materials and turn them into walls and roofs.

  The buildings were simple wooden lodges. Rough streets meandered between them, little more than packed earth, with torches burning at intervals along them. At the end of a straggling row of small, identical dwellings rose a larger building with a wide porch. Its small windows flickered with light, and from inside came the sound of raucous singing.

  “The Double Stag!” proclaimed Melchior, clapping his hands together.

  “What?”

  The wizard pointed at a swinging sign carrying a painting of a huge deer with two heads standing proudly in a forest glade. “It’s the name of the tavern!”

  “Oh,” Tarlan replied, not wanting to betray that fact that, for all Mirith’s attempts to teach him, he’d never been very good at reading.

  Melchior strode up to the inn. Tarlan had an urge to turn tail and run back to the clearing. The idea of spending the night under the trees with his pack was almost too much to resist.

  Then he remembered Mirith’s dying words.

  You told me to take my jewel to Melchior. Well, I’ve lost the jewel, but at least I’ve found the wizard. And I’m not letting him out of my sight!

  Melchior opened the tavern door and Tarlan followed him inside.

  He’d expected something like the dining hall at Castle Vicerin: a big, open chamber with diners seated politely at a long table. Instead, a low beamed ceiling brushed the top of Tarlan’s head. A large fire threw up a flickering glow and clots of smoke; never had Tarlan breathed air so thick. The smell of soot was strong, but there were other smells too: beer and roasting meat, spice and sweat.

  And the tavern was packed full of people.

  Isurians. So these are the folk who live in the forest.

  Their clothes were patched, their hair long and shaggy. Most of the men carried wood axes at their waists; the women wore simple dresses, less grand than those he’d seen around Castle Vicerin and much thinner than the bulky wraps worn by the women of icebound Yalasti. And there were so many of them. Their combined conversation was a constant, pounding roar.

  A few heads turned as Tarlan and Melchior entered. Most carried on drinking and eating. In a far, dark corner a woman shrieked with laughter; in another, several men roared out a bawdy song.

  Melchior pushed his way to a trestle table stacked with small kegs and plates of food. Tarlan stood frozen. He felt trapped, as if the noise were trying to crush him.

  Can’t stay! Got to run!

  Melchior returned carrying a large platter of bread and meat in one hand, and two tankards in the other. With an effort Tarlan quelled his panic and followed the wizard to a vacant table, where they sat and began to eat.

  The bread was wonderful: fresh and doughy. The meat had a tang like nothing he’d tasted before. For several long moments Tarlan forgot his discomfort, his attention wholly taken up by the food. As he devoured mouthful after mouthful, he became aware of Melchior watching him.

  “So I’m hungry,” he said defensively.

  “Do you hear what they are saying?” said the wizard, picking birdlike at the bread.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Tarlan listened. It was hard to make out individual conversations among the hubbub, but certain phrases kept rising to the surface:

  “. . . marched on Idilliam . . .”

  “. . . heard the bridge has fallen . . .”

  “. . . children of the prophecy . . .”

  Tarlan lifted the tankard, which was full of warm, foaming ale. He drank half at a gulp and slammed the tankard down with a satisfying thud. His belly felt tight and full. He hoped the thorrods and the rest of his pack had eaten as well.

  “News travels fast,” he said. He looked around, amazed all over again by the noise in the tavern. Why do these humans talk so much? Then the question came back to him: the one he hadn’t dared to ask earlier. “How did you lose your powers, then?”

  The wizard grinned. “Social niceties are not your strong point, are they, my boy?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. It is a fair question. And it deserves a fair answer.”

  “So are you going to tell me or not?”

  Melchior dabbed his mouth with the corner of his robe and sat back patting his stomach, even though he’d eaten barely a few scraps.

  “You know how your mother died,” he said.

  Tarlan shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “Elodie told me. But what’s that got to do with your powers?”

  “Then you know that I tried to save your mother’s life. But I had no way of knowing if my magic had worked. I suspected at the time—and have since come to believe—that it did not. Immediately after the execution, I was consumed by rage and guilt. I did something very foolish.”

  “What did you do?” Rage was something Tarlan could understand.

  “I confronted King Brutan. In front of the entire court, I declared him a coward, a tyrant, and a murderer.”

  Tarlan’s respect for the old man grew. “Really? What did he do?”

  “Sent me to the dungeons, of course. Luckily for me, he put a fellow called Captain Ossilius in charge of my confinement. Ossilius is a good man, and he arranged my escape. Brutan put a price on my head and so off I went into exile.”

  Tarlan whistled. “Mirith wanted me to find you. But everyone told me you were dead.”

  “I spread some rumors to that effect. I am glad to know they took hold.”

  “So you just . . . waited?”

  “What else could I do? My powers were gone. I was a marked man. But I did achieve two things. The first was to seek out Ossilius’s son—Fessan. Like me, he had been banished from Idilliam.”

  “Did he call the king a coward too?”

  “No. He used actions rather than words. He defended a carter whose wagon had ove
rturned in the castle gate from being stoned by soldiers of the King’s Legion.”

  “Stoned? Because of an accident?”

  Melchior shrugged. “The broken wagon was holding up the royal procession. For defying the will of the king, Fessan was beaten to within an inch of his life and banished.”

  Tarlan fiddled with the edge of his cloak. He really knew nothing about the young Trident commander, he realized, and wished he could take back his harsh words at the camp.

  “From the moment I found him,” Melchior went on, “a young man in a ragged soldier’s uniform with an equally ragged scar down the side of his face, I knew he possessed the same fighting spirit as his father. Together we set up Trident.”

  “What was the second thing?”

  Melchior’s wrinkled face seemed to contract. “Ah, that is something that weighs heavily on me. It concerns my apprentice.”

  “You have an apprentice?”

  “I had one. Her name was Limmoni. She was . . . extraordinary. Had she lived, she might have been the greatest wizard ever to walk Toronian soil.”

  “She died? How?”

  “I cannot say for certain. I sent her to Idilliam, to Castle Tor, in the guise of a serving girl. She was to be my eyes and ears. She performed her task extraordinarily well. But now, alas, I sense that she is gone.”

  “You . . . sense it?”

  “Whatever the distance between them, no two wizards are ever completely apart.” Melchior gave Tarlan a small smile. “I know you understand me, Tarlan. Is this not how you feel about your pack?”

  Tarlan considered this. Would he know if Theeta died? Or Greythorn? Or Filos?

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, it is.”

  Casting off his melancholy, Melchior suddenly stood, picked up their empty tankards, and said, “Serious talk dries the tongue. Let me get us more to drink.”

  Tarlan watched the wizard force his way through the crowded tavern. He picked at what was left of the bread, tossing the crumbs moodily over the edge of the table. The fire crackled in the tavern’s hearth, a high, popping sound that was just audible over the buzz of countless conversations. A strident voice rose above the noise, coming from a burly man seated at the next table.