The Lost Realm (29 page)

“Greythorn, I'm sorry!”

He gingerly lifted the injured wolf from Theeta's back and carried him to the water's edge. Unlike his own, the wolf's heartbeat was so faint he could barely feel it.

“Don't die, Greythorn,” he whispered. “Please, don't die.”

Tightening his grip, he eased himself off the platform into the shallow water at the lake's edge. He bent his knees and lowered Greythorn's whole body into the lake.

As the water lapped around the wolf's muzzle, Tarlan hesitated.

I want to cure him, not drown him.

But Melchior hadn't drowned, had he?

Gritting his teeth, Tarlan plunged the wolf under the water. His gray fur fluttered in the silver liquid. His legs twitched. Bubbles streamed from his blood-spattered nostrils.

Tarlan held him under to a count of five, then lifted him out, grunting with the extra weight of his waterlogged fur. Then a large talon closed around Greythorn's body and lifted him clear.

“Thanks, Theeta.”

As the thorrod lay Greythorn down, Tarlan clambered out and poured more water onto the wolf's face, wincing as it splashed into his wounded eye. Greythorn's chest heaved. The starlight from the glowing stones seemed to grow momentarily brighter. Tarlan placed his hand on the wolf's flank and was relieved to feel a strong, steady heartbeat. The fur on Greythorn's face rippled. Tarlan watched in amazement as the gash closed up, the skin sealing itself into a long, straggling scar.

The eye above the scar remained white and sightless.

Greythorn's other eye opened, rolled, then fixed on Tarlan. The wolf lifted his head and licked Tarlan's cheek.

“Wolf heal,” Theeta cawed happily.

“Thank you,” said Greythorn, his voice a soft, contented growl.

Tarlan threw his arms around the wolf's neck and hugged him.

“You're welcome!” he cried. “But your eye.”

“I have another.”

Greythorn struggled out of Tarlan's grip and shook his body from head to tail. Water sprayed in a silver spiral, dousing Tarlan and Theeta.

Laughing, Tarlan stroked Greythorn behind his ears, then crossed the platform to where the wizard lay, still submerged in the magical lake.

Anxiously he scanned the network of shining stones. Were they really all lit? How would he ever know?

“Ships come,” Theeta warned.

Tarlan wondered how long it would take the Galadronians to scale the side of the volcano. Once the enemy reached the crater's edge, they would be trapped down here like mice in a hole.

No choice
, he thought grimly.
It's now or never. I've got to wake him up.

“Your turn, Melchior,” he said, and climbed down into the water.

The wizard looked just the same as ever, with his arms and legs thrown out and his face contorted into some unnamable expression. Tarlan slipped his hands beneath Melchior's back and heaved.

Melchior didn't move.

Tarlan tried again. Still nothing. The wizard might have been made of stone.

“Theeta! Come and help!”

The thorrod joined him and lowered her claw obediently into the water. But even with her huge talons and enormous strength, Melchior didn't budge.

“That's enough,” said Tarlan, waving her away. “Let me think.”

He looked again at the twinkling stars.
What have I missed?

Plunging his arms back into the water, he laced them under Melchior's back and heaved. He felt the strain in his shoulders, in the tendons of his neck. The muscles of his thighs bulged with the effort.

“Theeta help?” the thorrod said.

Before Tarlan could respond, something struck him in the chest, knocking all the breath from his lungs and lifting him clear of the water. He flew through the air, arms flailing. The hard stone of the platform rushed up toward him . . . and then Theeta's wing was there, a welcome blanket of feathers that softened his landing.

Staggering to his feet, he took a hesitant step toward the lake again. All around him, the white stones burned like miniature suns. He took another step, and something pushed him back: a gigantic, invisible force.

The air crackled, and Tarlan's skin pimpled into gooseflesh. He saw that Greythorn's fur was standing on end, and Theeta's feathers were ruffling as if she were flying at high speed.

Tarlan tried to walk forward again. Again, the unseen hand pressed him back, this time with more force. The light from the stones strengthened. Something swelled inside the all-encompassing glow, and then a silver tree was rising up before him, its outline wavering and uncertain. Its shape shifted. Now it was no longer a tree but a tower of silver stone. It changed again, this time to a shimmering silver flame.

Tongues of white fire licked out from the stars, stabbing inward from every side of the crater toward the platform on which Tarlan, Theeta, and Greythorn were cowering. Tarlan threw his hand over his face, convinced this was death come to take them all.

Through his closed eyelids, he sensed the world turning red. Then, abruptly, the brightness faded. The crackling sensation subsided. All was still.

Tarlan lowered his arm.

Melchior was standing before him.

The wizard looked younger than Tarlan remembered, even though his face was still cracked with a thousand wrinkles. He seemed taller too—was that possible? His yellow robes flowed around him, moving with a constant, subtle liquidity, even though he himself was motionless. His staff was in one hand, and on his age-worn yet oddly youthful face there was a grin.

“Melchior,” said Tarlan cautiously. “Is it . . . are you . . . ?”

The wizard's grin widened.

“Yes, my boy! And yes!”

With this cry, Melchior's whole body relaxed. His robes ceased their unsettling flowing movement. He took a step forward, flexed his legs in what might have been puzzlement, or perhaps wonder, and stamped his feet on the stone platform, one after the other.

“The world feels strong,” he announced. “Or perhaps it is me. Who can say?”

“Are you back? I mean, did it work? Did it really work?”

Without speaking, Melchior spread his arms to indicate the dazzling constellations of shining stones that surrounded them. But were they quite as dazzling as they had been, Tarlan wondered?

Their work is done. They're already beginning to fade.

Melchior held up his staff. His fingers danced over the runes carved into its ancient surface. His lips moved rapidly. Tarlan heard no words, but something told him the wizard was counting.

A sparrow emerged from one end of the staff. Immediately it took flight, its wings humming in the silence. Every one of its tiny brown feathers looked as if it had been carved from oak. Theeta extended her neck over Tarlan's shoulder, watching with interest.

The little bird flew like an arrow to the opposite end of the staff, and vanished back into the wood that had spawned it. A moment later a second sparrow performed the same trick. Then three more birds appeared, and suddenly there was an entire flock of sparrows moving in an endless fluttering stream along the length of the staff.

Tarlan watched in delight with Theeta's huge beak resting lightly on his shoulder. Greythorn stood to attention at his feet, his one good eye fixed on the spectacle.

“Little wings,” said Theeta.

Melchior's fingers fell still, and his lips stopped moving. The stream of birds flowed into the staff for the final time, leaving a lone sparrow, which darted suddenly toward Theeta. The little bird circled the head of its gigantic cousin three times, then returned to the staff and, with a single chirp, vanished inside.

Melchior, whose face had grown grave while he'd been performing this trick, relaxed.

“The magic is back,” he said. With a slight frown, he plucked a single, minute feather from the end of his staff. He studied it for a moment, then rubbed it between his fingers, causing it to vanish.

“That was . . . amazing,” said Tarlan. He could feel the wizard's smile reflected on his own face. Despite everything that had happened on the beach, he felt safe again.

Then he remembered the ships.

“I don't think we've got much time for tricks, though.”

“No, indeed.” Melchior's frown lingered. “There is a kingdom to be won. But before that, I must ask you a question, Tarlan, and you must be truthful with your answer.”

Tarlan swallowed. He didn't like the sound of this. “All right.”

“Did you wake me before my time?”

Tarlan briefly considered lying, then thought better of it. “I don't know. I don't think so. I had to . . . I had to leave you for a while. When I came back, the stones were all lit. I tried to lift you out of the water, but I couldn't. Then you . . . well, you came out of your own accord.”

Melchior's frown deepened as he listened intently. When Tarlan had finished, he nodded slowly.

“All right. I understand. You did well, Tarlan. Very well.”

Tarlan turned, breathing a sigh of relief. But Melchior's hand planted itself on his shoulder and turned him back.

“Now tell me, Tarlan, why did you have to leave me . . . and what made you come back?”

Tarlan shot a glance up at the crater's opening, a tiny circle of light hanging high above their heads. “There's so much to tell, Melchior, but I don't think there's time.”

“Tell it quickly, then.”

So Tarlan hastily explained about the invading fleet. “They say they're from Galadron.”

Melchior's eyes widened. “Galadron,” he repeated slowly. “Are you certain?”

Tarlan nodded.

“I traveled there once, long ago,” Melchior said. He closed his eyes, as if remembering. “Before the Thousand Year War, Galadron was a good friend to Toronia. Then Toronia fell into conflict. Since then Galadron turned away from us. It wanted nothing to do with war.”

“It does now,” muttered Tarlan.

“Much must have changed.” Abruptly, Melchior struck the stone with his staff. “You were right, Tarlan.”

“Right? Right about what?”

“This is no time for tricks, nor is there any time to waste. Toronia is in no position to defend itself from invasion. We are all in far greater danger than we imagined.”

Shouts rang down from high above. Tarlan felt the weight of Theeta's beak lift from his shoulder as the thorrod raised her head. He followed her gaze and saw tiny shapes moving at the crater's edge, silhouetted against the sky.

“Were you followed here?” said Melchior.

“That's why I wanted to hurry. Theeta—can you carry us all?”

“Theeta strong!” the thorrod said. “Fly now!”

Tarlan was about to help Melchior climb onto Theeta's back when the old man surprised him by springing up with an acrobat's easy grace. Turning his attention to Greythorn, he saw that the wolf was already settling himself into the thick feathers behind the wizard.

“That water is powerful stuff,” Tarlan said as he joined his friends.

“Powerful?” Melchior's expression was severe. “My boy, you do not know the meaning of the word.”

A shiver chased down Tarlan's spine. Then the wizard cracked a smile.

“But you will! Fly, you great bird! Fly!”

Despite the extra weight on her back, Theeta flew a fast, straight line up toward the open sky. The shining stones sped past, falling away beneath them like shooting stars. Although their light was indeed beginning to fade, they still blazed bright enough to leave lingering streaks in Tarlan's vision.

They are all lit
, he told himself.
They are!

And they were.

Except one.

It sat near the top of the scintillating bracelet of light through which they were ascending: a single, unlit stone. The instant he saw it, Tarlan's heart froze. He felt Melchior stiffen beside him, and knew the wizard had seen it too.

“What does it mean?” Tarlan cried over the rush of the air.

“Nothing.”

“I woke you too soon. I knew it was wrong!”

“It's nothing,” said Melchior again. Did the wizard sound troubled, or was that just Tarlan's imagination?

“You did nothing wrong, Tarlan. Pay it no mind. Remember the sparrow.”

“Sparrows. There were lots of them.”

“No. There was only one.
That
was the true magic.”

Tarlan had no idea what the wizard was talking about. “You're sure the stone doesn't matter?”

“Tarlan, we have more pressing concerns.”

With a deafening screech, Theeta burst out of the crater and into the clear air above. The morning sky was bright, and the storm had left the air crisp and clear. The comet hung directly overhead, a frozen spark thrown from some unseen celestial bonfire.

The volcano's slopes were swarming with Galadronian soldiers.

There are so many of them!
Tarlan felt a stab of fear.
What can one wizard and one boy do?

They were spotted immediately. Shouts rang out across the mountain and the air around them filled with whistling sidebow bolts. Several passed close to Tarlan's face.

“They mean to kill us,” said Melchior conversationally. “We could climb out of range. We have a thorrod.”

“I didn't wake you up to escape,” said Tarlan. “I woke you up to fight!”

“How sad,” said Melchior, “to wake to this. To find our old friends have turned enemy.”

On the slopes below, the Galadronians were forming up into lines and reloading their sidebows.

“Melchior! We don't have time for—”

“They invade despite everything.” Melchior's eyes drifted to the mainland, where the village was burning with flames as bright as the risen sun. “They think they can defy the prophecy.”

“Can they?”

The wizard's eyes filled with infinite sadness.

“Nobody can say, Tarlan. Not even a wizard.”