The Lost Realm (26 page)

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.

“You, 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.

This is hopeless
, he thought.
We'll never defeat them by ourselves.

They needed help.

Tarlan scanned the ground for his pack. Filos was making for Merello's ship. The ship's rail was lined with archers, each aiming a strange bow that looked like it was tilted onto its side. In just a breath or two, the young tigron would be in range.

“Filos!” he yelled, hoping she would hear him over the battle. “Come back!”

To his relief she swerved aside, just as a volley of short, red bolts flew from the weapons. They struck the beach an arm's length from her paws, raising puffs of black sand.

“To the woods!” he shouted, hoping the rest of his pack would hear.

Filos immediately broke away from the melee and began racing up the beach. After one final swipe of his massive claws—which felled four Galadronians in a single blow—Brock lumbered after her.

“Nasheen! Kitheen! See them to safety!”

As the thorrods shadowed Filos and Brock into the tree line, Tarlan looked around for Greythorn.

The wolf was circling Tyro, who was holding him off with his curved sword. Every time Greythorn snapped, Tyro swung his blade.

“Down!” Tarlan cried.

Theeta dropped like a rock, the air screeching through the stiff feathers at the ends of her wings. At the last moment, she pulled out of the dive and Tarlan swung his sword. Tyro looked up in surprise, taking a clumsy half step back. It was just enough to save him from decapitation. Instead of slicing through his neck, Tarlan's blade connected with his shoulder.

The thud of the impact sent shock waves all the way up Tarlan's arm. He couldn't tell if he'd struck flesh or armor. As Theeta wheeled around, Tyro's sword struck the side of Greythorn's head. The wolf flew sideways, blood pouring from the gash that had opened up below his left eye.

Stabbing his sword back into its scabbard, Tarlan wrenched Theeta around in a tight circle. Leaning precariously out from the thorrod's neck, he managed to slip his arm beneath Greythorn's body and heave the injured wolf onto Theeta's back. Screaming with the effort, Theeta lurched skyward, great beats of her wings compensating for the sudden extra weight. Tarlan held Greythorn against him, feeling the rapid drumming of the wolf's heart; his own heart was beating at least as fast, and his breath was coming in rapid spurts. His hands were slick with Greythorn's blood.

“To the Isle of Stars,” Tarlan cried. “Faster than you've flown before!”

As they sped over the battlefield, a row of Galadronians raised their sideways bows. A scant breath later, a volley of bolts whistled past Tarlan's head. One struck Theeta's right wing, but passed straight between the feathers without so much as drawing blood.