The Lost Realm Read online

“. . . so I gets the chain round his neck and he goes wild, see?” the man was saying.

  “That’s bears for you,” his skinny companion replied.

  “Aw, I’ve kept bears for years. Once they’re broken they’re meek as babies. The trick is to keep ’em scared. That’s the trick with all animals, Buster. Keep ’em scared.”

  Something snapped inside Tarlan. He stood, his legs wobbling a little. He didn’t feel entirely in control of himself.

  “Why would you want to keep a bear?” he said in a voice that wasn’t quite his own.

  The man stared up at him from his stool, his ruddy face a mask of annoyance. “What’s it to you, lad?”

  “Can a bear pull a cart?” said Tarlan. “Can it plow a field? A bear is a wild animal. A free animal. Why would you—”

  “I’ll tell you what a bear is good for,” sneered the man. “A bear is good for dancing.” He nudged his companion. “Ain’t it, Buster?”

  “Dancing?” The edges of Tarlan’s vision were flickering red. “You keep a bear to make it dance?”

  Before he knew what was happening, his fist was flying toward the man’s face. Big as he was, the man moved fast, bringing up his own hand just in time to catch Tarlan’s. Twisting free, Tarlan wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat. His eyes bulged with pain and surprise.

  “Tarlan!”

  Melchior’s voice penetrated the booming that had filled up Tarlan’s ears. With a supreme effort of will, Tarlan released his hold. The man pushed himself away from his table, staggered upright. Tarlan stood, wavering, the red mist clearing from his vision. The tavern had fallen silent. Faces turned toward him, wide with undisguised suspicion.

  The man Tarlan had attacked drew a long, shining knife from his belt.

  Everyone in the surrounding crowd took a step back.

  With a click Melchior placed something on the table in front of the man. Tarlan saw it was a large, silver coin.

  “For your trouble,” said the wizard.

  “I’ll give ’im trouble,” growled the man, massaging his bruised throat and brandishing the knife at Tarlan. “Brat like that should be locked up. I’ve just the cage for ’im.”

  “He will be beaten,” said Melchior smoothly. “Come, boy, and next time mind your manners.”

  “You’re paying him?” Tarlan was incredulous.

  Melchior raised his hand, though stopped short at striking him. “What did I say about manners?”

  The faces watched them as they left. Tarlan suspected that fights were commonplace here. The arrival of strangers, perhaps, was not such a regular occurrence.

  “Are you really planning to beat me?” said Tarlan as they escaped into the cold night air.

  “Of course not. But I had to say something.”

  “I could have taken the knife from him.”

  “And what about the knives of his seven friends?”

  This brought Tarlan up short. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the man in the green hat, the man with the limp, the woman with the broken tooth, the fat man with small eyes, the twin brothers, and the beautiful woman who carried the biggest dagger of all up the sleeve of her dress. They were all standing behind him. Did you not see them?”

  Tarlan opened his mouth, closed it. He’d always prided himself on being observant.

  Just how sharp are your eyes, old man?

  “I’m not sorry for what I did,” he snapped.

  “I understand that. But we went in there to gather information, not to get you killed in a brawl.”

  Tarlan’s anger was still boiling. He resisted the urge to turn it on the wizard.

  “I’m not leaving without freeing that bear!” He waited for Melchior to contradict him. To his amazement, the wizard grinned.

  “Neither am I.”

  They retraced their steps to the edge of the village. After checking they hadn’t been followed, Tarlan pursed his lips and whistled three times. Moments later a pair of shadows coalesced in the darkness, resolving themselves rapidly into two furry shapes.

  “Greythorn! Filos!” Tarlan whispered. “Stay quiet, now. You have a job to do.”

  The wolf and the tigron sat obediently before him, awaiting instructions. Tarlan held out his hands and allowed the animals to sniff them.

  “Do you smell the man?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Greythorn. “A big man.”

  “Sweaty,” said Filos.

  Melchior watched with interest. Tarlan allowed himself a smile.

  You might see things I cannot see, old man. But I hear things you cannot hear!

  “Big and sweaty, yes,” he said, “that’s exactly what he was. Can you find his scent? I think he must live nearby. Can you take me to where he lives?”

  Immediately, Greythorn and Filos dropped their snouts to the ground and began to sniff, trotting in ever-widening circles as they sought the trail. Greythorn found it first, uttering a low yip as he shot off along a little-used forest track. Filos quickly joined him. The two animals wove in and out of each other’s path, sharing the task of tracing the scent back to its source.

  “Who needs magic?” Tarlan said to Melchior. “Come on.”

  Long before they reached a ramshackle hut hidden in the trees, Tarlan could smell the bear himself: a damp, soiled stench that hung in the night air like smoke. The smell led them to a large wooden cage hidden behind the hut. Inside was the biggest bear Tarlan had ever seen.

  The instant he saw them, the bear snarled and threw himself against the bars. One massive paw slashed out between the slats of wood, his sharp claws raking down Tarlan’s arm. Tarlan drew back with a hiss and circled the cage, being sure to keep his distance.

  “Be careful,” said Melchior. “He is angry.”

  “Of course he’s angry!” snapped Tarlan. “Look at him!”

  The bear’s black fur was torn and striped with blood. Old scars shone through the matted pelt. Tarlan wondered how many years the man had kept him here, how many beatings the wretched creature had endured.

  “It’s all right,” he soothed, reaching out his hand. “You’re safe now.”

  The bear bellowed and swiped again. Tarlan dodged, barely avoiding another injury.

  Maybe this isn’t going to be so easy.

  “I want to set you free.” Tarlan conjured up images of wide, open spaces in his mind, trying to project them toward the bear. For some reason, all he could think of was sandy deserts, even though he’d never seen one. “Please, won’t you let me help you?”

  “He-elp?” growled the bear, eyeing Tarlan with suspicion. His voice sounded like falling rocks. “You speak? You he-elp?”

  “Yes. I speak. I help. What’s your name?”

  “Brock!” The sound came out in a fit of coughing. “Brock! Brock!”

  “Brock? Is that your name?”

  “Brock!” the bear agreed, glaring at Tarlan with eyes like tiny furnaces.

  “All right, Brock. Are you going to let me help you?”

  “He-elp?”

  Melchior’s hand came to rest on Tarlan’s arm. Tarlan nearly jumped out of his skin. “I cannot understand what he is saying,” said the wizard, “but I do know he is dangerous, Tarlan. Perhaps this was not such a good idea.”

  “Too late. Like it or not, the bear goes free.” Tarlan picked up a stone and smashed it against the lock. The simple wooden mechanism exploded into splinters, and the door swung open.

  Before he could blink, the bear was out. The enormous beast moved like an avalanche, huge and irresistible. He crashed into Tarlan, knocking all the wind from his lungs and throwing him to the ground. Fighting for breath, heart hammering with fear and excitement, Tarlan stared up into those blazing eyes.

  “Kill you!” thundered the bear. His mouth yawned, revealing immense yellow teeth. Saliva dripped onto Tarlan’s face. The bear’s breath was unspeakably bad.

  “Kill me if you want to,” said Tarlan, barely controlling his terror. “I can’t stop you. You’re free
to do whatever you want now, Brock. You’re free.”

  The bear drew back his paw. In the faint starlight, each claw looked like a sword. His rancid breath hung around his gaping jaws in a steaming halo.

  Abruptly, the bear closed his mouth, lowered his upraised paw, and stepped away from Tarlan.

  “Free,” said Brock, as if tasting the word for the first time. He looked at the trees, at the sky, then at Tarlan. “You freed Brock. Brock thanks you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Tarlan rose and stroked the bear’s ragged muzzle with one trembling hand.

  “Remarkable!” said Melchior. “I have seen many things in my long days, Tarlan, but never anything quite like that.”

  “Oy! What d’you think you’re doing?!”

  Tarlan turned to see the burly man from the tavern loping up to the cottage. One of his fists was clenched around a whip. His face was crimson with fury.

  Instantly loyal to their new companion, Greythorn and Filos stepped in front of Brock, lowered their heads, and raised their hackles. Their growls filled the night.

  “No,” said Tarlan, waving them back. “This is Brock’s fight.”

  The bear squinted at him, his ferocity replaced with such a look of confusion that Tarlan’s heart broke.

  “It’s all right, Brock,” he said. “You’re free to do this, too.”

  Understanding dawned on the bear’s ravaged face. Drawing back his lips to reveal those enormous teeth, he reared up on his hind legs. Tarlan gasped. He was tall for his age, but the bear was fully twice his height.

  The man never stood a chance. As Brock crashed back to the ground and charged, he drew back his whip, but the bear was quicker, closing his jaws around the man’s wrist and clamping them shut. Tarlan heard a sickening crunch, then the man’s severed hand dropped to the ground.

  “Aieee!” the man shrieked. “Don’t . . . don’t . . .”

  Grabbing the man with his huge paws, Brock picked up his torturer and hurled him into the cage, still screaming. The man landed upside down, blood squirting from the stump of his wrist. His eyes rolled up to show the whites and his howls of pain reduced to faint bleating sounds.

  Brock advanced on him once more.

  “No,” said Tarlan, blocking the bear’s path. Brock snarled at him with such ferocity that Tarlan thought for a moment he’d gone too far.

  “Don’t kill him.”

  The bear swayed on his hind legs, staring down at Tarlan with rage-filled eyes.

  “Want to bite him! All the way through!”

  “No. Let him live. He’ll tell his friends what happened here. They might think twice about keeping animals locked up after that.”

  The bear’s black brow contracted as he considered this.

  “Brock wants to kill him,” he said, but his growling voice had lost its angry edge.

  “I know. I understand.”

  At last, with a low grunt, Brock dropped to all fours and turned his back on the man who’d kept him prisoner.

  “Where will Brock go?” the bear said.

  “That isn’t for me to say,” Tarlan answered. “It’s for you to choose.”

  After a long moment the bear asked, “What is your name?”

  “Tarlan.”

  Another pause. Then:

  “Brock will come with Tarlan.”

  Tarlan grinned. “I was hoping you were going to say that.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Gulph was surrounded by cold. It enveloped him, sucked him down, turned him over and over. He flung out his arms and legs, and the coldness resisted. He opened his mouth to yell, and the coldness rushed into him. The coldness was in his eyes, his nose, his ears. The coldness was everywhere, and he was lost inside it. . . .

  Water! It’s water!

  Gulph clamped his mouth shut and kicked out.

  Which way is up?

  He didn’t know. Perhaps he was swimming deeper within whatever pool he’d fallen into, swimming down to his death.

  His lungs were burning. Soon he would have to breathe.

  When I do, I’ll drown.

  Finally he broke the surface. Flinging back his head, he drew in a ragged breath. The cold water drained from his face, leaving him gasping in warm, humid air. He churned his legs, fighting to stay afloat.

  “Tip your head back,” said a nearby voice. “Waggle your arms.”

  It was Jessamyn, treading water beside him with a small child’s easy grace. She looked fearful but determined.

  “My mother says that legs want to float,” she added. “You just have to let them.”

  Gulph did as Jessamyn said, tilting back his head and waving his arms slowly just below the surface. To his surprise, his legs bobbed up. With almost no effort at all, he was floating on his back, staring straight up.

  What he saw took away what little breath he’d managed to gather.

  High above him was an immense arch of deep purple. It seemed to glow faintly. Within it, a thousand tiny pricks of light twinkled like stars. It was vast and beautiful, a breathtaking twilight sky.

  The sky? How can that be, when we’re so far underground?

  Then he saw it wasn’t the sky. It was the ceiling of a cavern, a gigantic chamber made of craggy purple rock. Rock that shone with an inner light.

  Not rock. Crystal!

  “Gulph! My liege! Are you all right?”

  Ossilius swam up to him. Blood ran freely from a gash on his forehead. Gulph realized his own face was stinging; when he looked at his hands, he saw they were covered in scratches from the rockfall.

  Close behind Ossilius was Hetty, who was struggling to keep an unconscious Marcus afloat. The soldier’s head bobbed and he mumbled incoherently.

  “I’m fine,” Gulph told Ossilius. “Help him.”

  They clustered around Marcus, taking it in turns to support the soldier. The water lapped around them, tiny ripples sparkling in the purple glow of the crystal ceiling. To Gulph’s amazement, the water itself also seemed to be aglow.

  It’s silver!

  “We have to get him to the shore,” said Hetty, as Marcus’s head dipped briefly under the water.

  “There is no shore,” Ossilius replied.

  Gulph saw that he was right. No matter which way he looked, all he could see was an expanse of silvery liquid melting slowly into darkness.

  What now? he thought, panic rising.

  Jessamyn gave an excited squeal. “Look! A boat! Over there!”

  A slender vessel was gliding toward them through the eerie twilight. Two figures steered it with long paddles: a man and a woman, both dressed in flowing silk robes. Their faces were as pale as milk.

  “Climb aboard,” said the man as the boat drew up alongside them. “Be quick now.”

  Together they heaved Marcus into the boat, then clambered in one at a time. The man helped them, pausing occasionally to cast a wary gaze out across the water. The woman worked her paddle in silence, deftly keeping the narrow boat stable as its cargo steadily increased.

  Gulph was last aboard. He flopped down in the curving hull.

  “Thank you,” he panted.

  “You were lucky we were out here.” The man’s voice was low and soft. He nodded to the woman, and together they began to paddle the boat onward through the silvery water. The paddles made no splash, and no sound.

  “Where are we?” asked Hetty.

  “Celestis,” said the woman, speaking for the first time. Her voice was as smooth as the water.

  “Celestis?” said Gulph. “What’s Celestis?”

  “This is Celestis.” The woman waved her arm out across the silver lake. “This is the lost realm.”

  Gulph stared at her.

  The lost realm. Does that mean we’re lost too?

  He glanced toward Ossilius and saw that the captain’s mouth had dropped open. The rest of their companions simply looked confused. Above, stars twinkled in the dimly lit ceiling.

  “Once there were three realms,” said the man. �
�Then came the time of change. Now there is a fourth. Yet none above know that Celestis lingers.”

  Gulph’s head was filling up with questions. All his life he’d believed there were only three realms in Toronia: Idilliam, Isur, and Ritherlee.

  Three realms. Three siblings. The crown of three.

  Yet here he was in a fourth realm he’d never known existed.

  A dreadful fear stole over him. The prophecy only mentions three realms. What if it’s wrong? What if we’re fighting for something that isn’t true?

  “Please,” he said, “tell us more! What was the time of change you mentioned? Does anyone here ever go up to Idilliam? How—”

  “You will hear more,” said the woman, “when you are accepted.”

  “If you are accepted,” said the man.

  “If,” the woman agreed.

  “Accepted?” said Gulph. “Who by?”

  “The Lady Redina,” said the woman. “None can enter Celestis without her permission.”

  “We need no permission,” said Ossilius through gritted teeth. “We have endured much hardship to reach this place, and none of it by choice.”

  Moving in perfect unison, and without haste, their rescuers laid down their paddles and reached beneath their silk robes. Each drew out a long sword and held it aloft. The blades shimmered, and Gulph saw that they too were made of shining crystal.

  “Permission must be granted,” the man repeated. “It is the way of Celestis.”

  He thrust his other hand toward Ossilius, who tensed. Gulph held his breath. If Ossilius drew his own sword, they were all going back in the water.

  Then he saw the man was presenting Ossilius with a small white cloth.

  “For your face,” he said. “There is blood.”

  Eyeing him cautiously, Ossilius took the cloth and wiped his face. The cloth came away bloody, but to Gulph’s astonishment, the wound on his friend’s forehead had vanished.

  “Is that cloth magic?” he blurted.

  The man shook his head. “Not the cloth. The water.”

  “It heals,” said the woman.

  Gulph realized his own face was no longer stinging. He stared at his hands. The scratches were gone, with no trace of scars remaining.

  At the far end of the boat, Marcus sat up, rubbing his head.