The Lost Realm (2 page)

What have you done with my baby?

The legionnaire prodded Sir Brax with the hilt of his sword. After a brief pause—during which Kalia was convinced the wretched man would throw up—Sir Brax began to speak.

“We were each given a babe,” he said, his words slurred with drink. “Mine was a boy. Castle, we rode away from the castle. Me and the babe.”

Kalia leaned forward, desperate to decipher his muddled speech.

“Kept to the back trails . . .” Sir Brax mumbled. “Tavern in Isur . . .” His chin lolled to his chest and the legionnaire gave him another prod. He looked up, his eyes glazed. “Safekeeping, away from the king. . . . Secret . . . secret at all costs.” Then: “His name—his name, it was . . .”

Kalia's blood ran cold.

“Go on,” growled the legionnaire, giving him a shake.

Sir Brax squinted. “Name was . . . Allus, maybe? Aphullus?”

Agulphus!
thought Kalia with a sudden surge that was part triumph, part terror.
That's his name! My Gulph. My poor little Gulph!

Sir Brax's ramblings petered out and a flicker of hope sparked within Kalia.

If they don't know his name, they can't find him.

Brutan had turned away. He stood with his fists bunched, and his big bear's body trembled from head to foot. Magritt's smile never wavered.

“Poor Sir Brax,” she said. “His mind is rotted with drink. Now, Kalia, to whom did you give the other children? And will you tell us, before the end?”

Before the end!

Magritt's words rang like cracked chimes through Kalia's thoughts. So they meant to kill her after all. Bringing her here, to the Undersalle, had not been about hearing her story, nor even allowing her to hear Sir Brax's.

They've already decided my fate
, she thought.
Nothing I say could make any difference.

She felt something wrench inside her. Now she'd never see her children again—never see them overthrow their father and take the crown, never see their destiny fulfilled. Hot tears rose to her eyes, but she forced them back.

They can kill me
, Kalia thought,
but that doesn't mean they've won.

She squared her shoulders. The weight of the iron gauntlets was almost unbearable, yet she lifted them all the same, spreading her arms wide.

“Look at me, Brutan,” she said quietly.

For a moment he didn't move. Then, slowly, with infinite menace, he turned. His face was a dark knot of fury.

“Final words, Kalia?” he said. “If so, make them brief. I am sick of the sight of you.”

“You tell me my children live,” Kalia proclaimed, willing her voice to rise up from this dark and dreadful place, wishing her words up and out into the night, where all who roamed beneath the stars might hear them. “I tell you it is true. My babies lived then, and they live still, and their lives have but one purpose: to see the death of you!”

Brutan's lip curled. “I knew it was true! I will track them down. As for you—you will be silent!”

“I will not! What kind of monster are you that you see your own children as creatures to be hunted and killed? What kind of monster puts his one remaining child—a boy of six—behind bars lest he prove traitor?”

“Silence, I said!”

“As Prince Nynus lies forgotten inside the Vault of Heaven, so your heart lies forgotten too! And as for your precious Toronia, was there any king who brought more suffering, more cruelty to his realm?”

Hauling the iron boots over the floor, she took two faltering steps toward him. Although her arms shook, suddenly the weight they bore seemed to feed her strength. Never mind that her magic was muted; she still had her voice.

“Do my children live? Yes! Will they see the prophecy fulfilled? Yes, and yes! They will end you, Brutan. I know it! You know it! All of Toronia knows it! The crown of three will once more find its proper place. And you? You will be gone from this world, as if you had never been here. None will mourn you, Brutan. And none will remember you!”

“SILENCE!”

Brutan drew his sword and advanced on Kalia, his voice crashing over her like a wave. She endured it, holding her ground as she awaited the killing blow. Reaching her, the king thrust the blade against her throat and bared his yellow teeth in her face.

“You will die, Kalia!”

For a long, agonizing moment she waited.

Then, hands shaking, Brutan lowered his sword and dropped it back into its sheath.

“A witch you are, and as a witch you will die,” he growled. “Not for you the clean dispatch of the blade. For you, Kalia, the end will be slow.” A scowl distorted his flushed and sweating face. “You will burn.”

Behind him, still seated on her throne, Queen Magritt nodded once, her smooth face creased only by a tiny, satisfied smile.

The same two legionnaires who'd dragged Kalia from her bedchamber now marched her into the small yard that lay behind the Undersalle. It was set deep below the towering walls of Castle Tor. Kalia felt like she was at the bottom of a square, stone well.

In the center of the yard, a wooden stake rose from a pile of wood and straw.

I am going to die.
The thought brought no fear, only a desperate ache.

The legionnaires lifted her onto the pyre. One of them pulled her arms behind her, wrapping them around the stake; the other tied her wrists together. The metal gauntlets felt as heavy as the world. Wood splintered beneath her iron-clad feet. The rest of the Legion filed into the yard, spreading out to line its walls. She was trapped inside a ring of bronze.

Brutan lit the pyre in silence, plunging a flaming torch deep into its wooden interior. He glared at Kalia as he did so. She returned his gaze with what she hoped was a look of defiance.

The king stepped away and the flames caught fast, rising into the night. Kalia waited for the pain, but it didn't come.

Why doesn't it hurt?
she thought. But it didn't matter. Inside she was in agony.

She tilted her head back, stared up past the confining walls to the night sky, far above. Three stars shone there: one green, one red, one gold. The prophecy stars.

My children's stars
, she thought as smoke closed over them, erasing them from view.
What will become of my three?

She would never know.

Sudden movement caught her eye: someone on a stone ledge, high above. A yellow robe, white hair.

Melchior!

The wizard was looking down at her, a look of infinite sorrow on his wrinkled face. He teetered, his bare feet planted wide, and for a moment Kalia thought he would fall from the ledge. He steadied himself with his staff, gripping it with his gnarled hands. His fingers were moving over the runes she knew were carved into its surface; his lips were moving too. Kalia tried to make out what he was saying, but she couldn't see the words.

Then she realized they weren't words at all.

They were numbers.

Yes, Melchior! Work your magic! Take it away. Take it all away!

In a rush, the smoke enveloped her, lifted her, carried her away. The last thing she heard before the end was the voice of Brutan, roaring in triumph.

Then, darkness.

CT ONE

 
Ten Years Later
 

T
o the postern gate!” shouted Captain Ossilius. “It's our only chance!”

He swung his sword, killing two undead warriors simultaneously. Gulph dodged past his friend, kicking out at the bodies, once, twice, tumbling them end over end down the steep stone stairs, where they scattered the oncoming enemy soldiers like bowling pins.

“That should buy us some time,” he gasped. “What's a postern gate?”

“Our last chance.”

Together, Gulph and Ossilius climbed the rest of the way up the stairs, ran along the battlement, and plunged down a steep ramp into a small, enclosed courtyard.

Here they halted, leaning against each other as they fought for breath. Gulph felt small against the burly, gray-haired captain, and wondered if he would always be as skinny as he was now.

Never mind growing up
, he thought, massaging the aches from his crooked back,
I just wish I'd grow straight.

“So where's this last chance of yours?” he said, stepping away from his companion, who was still struggling to breathe. Ossilius ran a hand through his gray hair and ushered Gulph over to a break in the wall.

“Look,” he said, pointing through the shattered stonework toward a squat tower built into the city wall.

“I can see what looks like a door,” said Gulph. “What are those things on either side of it? Statues?”

Ossilius nodded. “That's the postern gate.”

Gulph stared skeptically at the stretch of ground lying between them and their destination. Swarms of undead warriors were fighting their way through ranks of terrified citizens, and thick smoke shrouded the scene, making it hard to see exactly what was happening. But Gulph could hear the screams clearly enough.