A Kingdom Rises (Volume 3) (Crown of Three, Band 3) - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

J.D. Rinehart is a pseudonym for author Graham Edwards. When he’s not writing, he can be found exploring castles, watching films, or hiking through the countryside with Sir Galahad, his pet Great Dane. He loves falconry, and once raised a young falcon he found abandoned. He lives in Nottinghamshire, England.

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A Kingdom Rises

CHAPTER 1

Tarlan slumped facedown on Theeta’s back. His breath rasped in his smoke-scorched throat. His face was wet with tears.

Away, he thought. It’s time to go far, far away.

He pulled himself to the downy hollow that lay between Theeta’s warm neck and her huge, beating wings. After resting there for a moment, he stuck his head out into the open air and peered down.

Far below, the city of Idilliam burned. As Tarlan watched, the spindly tower rising from the ruins of Castle Tor crumbled and vanished into the smoke. Only moments earlier, he and Theeta had been swooping over the top of that very tower in an effort to save Gulph.

But we failed! My brother fell—and I never even got a chance to meet him!

Yet he hadn’t fallen alone. As they’d flown past, Theeta had shoved the undead monster King Brutan into the flames too. Brutan the tyrant, father to Tarlan, Gulph, and their sister, Elodie, was now just ash on the wind.

“We got justice, Theeta,” Tarlan said through his tears. “Brutan killed Gulph, but he paid.” He swallowed hard. “It isn’t enough, though. It will never be enough.”

Theeta remained silent.

“What was it all for?” Tarlan sat up, wiping angrily at his wet face. “The battle at Deep Poynt? All for nothing!”

“Star story,” croaked Theeta. “Life light.”

The thorrod’s strange way of speaking frequently left Tarlan puzzled. Not this time.

“I don’t care about the prophecy! I don’t care about my so-called destiny. So what if some old legend says that Gulph, Elodie, and I are supposed to rule Toronia? Oh yes, our father’s dead, like the prophecy said, but things are worse than ever. Gulph’s dead! Elodie’s turned traitor! As for me . . .”

He broke off.

I won’t cry again! I won’t!

“I’m done with humans. Just give me clean air, and a stream to drink from. That’s all I had in Yalasti. I should have stayed there.”

“Fly far,” said Theeta.

“That’s right, Theeta. Far away.” Tarlan took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “But there’s one thing I have to do first.”

Tugging gently at the ruff of golden feathers around Theeta’s neck, Tarlan steered the thorrod away from the burning wreckage of Idilliam and back toward the green forest realm of Isur. Before long, they were circling over Deep Poynt.

As Theeta approached the slopes surrounding the fortified hilltop town, Tarlan’s heart lurched. Where it wasn’t scorched by fire, the battlefield was torn to mud. Tarlan saw that littering the ground, lying in pools of their own blood, were the bodies of bears and horses, tigrons and wolves. His loyal friends, who’d fought beside him. Who’d fought for him. All dead. He stifled a moan.

I had no right to lead them into battle, he berated himself. What did it matter to those poor creatures who rules this land? Toronians, Galadronians . . . what’s the difference?

Turning his attention to the town itself, Tarlan watched as a group of men erected scaffolding around a jagged hole in the circular defensive wall. Once, this had been the gateway to Deep Poynt. Now the townsfolk were laboring to repair the considerable damage caused by the Galadronian war machines.

Directing the work was the Defender of Deep Poynt, a giant of a man with a bright thatch of red hair, known as The Hammer. Beside him stood a wizened old man in a grubby yellow robe. As Theeta’s shadow passed over them, both men looked up.

Theeta opened her beak and screeched. The men repairing the town defenses clapped their hands to their ears. Even the animals lying wounded or wandering among the dead raised their heads to see what the commotion was.

Among them were two more thorrods.

“Nasheen!” Tarlan shouted. “Kitheen!”

The enormous birds lifted their wings and screeched back their greetings. A little of the weight lifted from Tarlan’s heart.

My friends! My pack!

Theeta landed beside the thorrods and touched her beak to theirs, each in turn. As she was doing this, a blur of blue and white sprinted over the grass and leaped onto her back. Tarlan wrapped his arms round the young tigron’s neck and allowed her to cover his face with hot, slobbering licks.

Filos purred. “I’m glad to see you, Tarlan!”

“Enough, Filos! You’ll drown me!”

Filos tugged him to the ground, where Greythorn and Brock were waiting. Tarlan embraced the wolf and the bear in turn, taking care to be gentle with Greythorn’s wounds.

“How’s your sight?” Tarlan said, stroking the matted fur around the wolf’s left eye. The eye itself was filmed over white.

“One eye does me well enough,” Greythorn replied.

“Brock killed many enemies!” thundered the bear. He flexed two sets of massive claws in front of Tarlan’s face. “Brock will fight whenever Tarlan commands!”

Tarlan pushed Brock’s paws firmly away. “I won’t be asking you to fight again, Brock. I won’t be asking anything of you at all.”

The big bear’s brow contracted into shaggy confusion. “Brock does not understand.”

Filos nuzzled his hand. “Tarlan? What’s wrong?”

Tarlan ruffled the fur behind the tigron’s pointed ears. “Nothing. Everything’s going to be all right.”

They were all looking at him expectantly: Filos and Greythorn, Brock and the thorrods. Behind them, a much larger group of animals and birds had begun to gather, the survivors of the animal army Tarlan had led against the invading Galadronians. His pack.

“Tarlan!”

A bony hand planted itself on Tarlan’s shoulder and spun him round. Tarlan found himself face-to-face with the old man in the yellow robe.

“Melchior,” he grunted. “I’m not staying.”

The wizard frowned, multiplying the wrinkles on his age-worn face. He rubbed a bony hand through his matted white beard. “What do you mean, Tarlan?”

“Leave me alone!”

The frown became a look of concern. “What happened in Idilliam? Did you find Gulph?”

Tarlan pulled away. “I was too late! He died! Are you satisfied now?”

A ripple of growls moved through the watching crowd of animals. Melchior’s eyes grew wide.

“Dead?” said the wizard, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. “Do you mean . . . ?”

“What do you think I mean? Gulph is dead. So your precious prophecy is dead too.”

“What happened?”

Tarlan glared at him. “What does it matter?”

“Tell me.”

“He fell into the fire. Is that enough for you? The whole city was burning and Gulph fell into it.”

“But did you see him die?”

Tarlan shook his head. “I didn’t need to. Nobody could have survived those flames. Nobody! Gulph is gone! And soon . . .”

Tarlan bit back the words. Turning...