Free The Lost Castle by Michael Pryor Page B

can't see them. It was the fear that comes from imagination – thinking the worst that might happen and the worst that could happen and then building it up until it becomes the dizzy heights of terror.
    Simangee turned from the river and looked at Adalon. 'What is in your hand?'
    Adalon held up his find. 'I don't know.'
    Simangee lifted her head. 'I can feel its magic from here!' She peered at it. 'A pipe! Play it! Or give it to me!'
    Adalon grimaced. Simangee was apt to fiddle with magic, unworried by the consequences. She did not understand Adalon's caution where magic was concerned.
    He couldn't allow her to use the pipe. Exhausted as she was, still suffering from the touch of the evil cloud, toying with more magic would go hard with her.
    I do not want to do this , Adalon thought as he raised the pipe to his mouth. He paused. Targesh looked at him with concern, but his attention was caught by Simangee. She was looking at him with an expression that was a mixture of greed, sorrow and understanding.
    A thin wailing came from a distance. Simangee shuddered. 'Screets.'
    That was enough. Adalon took a deep breath and blew on the golden pipe.
    The whole valley seemed to echo with the sound. Birds sprang into the air and trees bent as if struck by a mighty wind. The voice of the pipe was as strong and golden as the sound of a mighty war horn. It spoke of battle and glory and triumph, but underneath, the music was haunted with grief and loss.
    For an instant, Adalon had a vision of a battle led by golden, indistinct figures he knew were the A'ak. They rode in cruel splendour, cutting a swathe through a force made up of misshapen Toothed Ones, Plated Ones, Horned Ones and Clawed Ones.
But while he saw this, Adalon was aware of a ghostly scene underlying this vision of triumph. It was the battlefield the next day, after the charge of the A'ak. It was strewn with dead and dying saur. Carrion birds hopped over corpses at their leisure. Flies were thick in the air.
    The double scene disappeared. Pain flared in the bones of his hand. Like the river of fire under Graaldon, it ran up his arm and spread through his whole body in an instant.
    Adalon stiffened. Waves of agony coursed through his body. He felt as if he were about to erupt. He tried to let go of the pipe, but his hand refused.
    His vision turned pink, then began to deepen toward red. It was as if he were looking at Targesh and Simangee through crimson silk.
    Through the torture, Adalon tried to fling the pipe away, but his fist remained clenched around it.
    'Adalon,' Targesh said. 'What's wrong?'
    Adalon could not speak. All he could do was suffer.
    With all his might, he strove to let go of the pipe, but he could not. Then, distantly, like the sound of a far-off bell, one of the most puzzling lessons in the Way of Claw came to him.
    When you can hold a moment in the claws of one hand, not allowing it to move, then you have achieved the true Way of the Claw.
    He had often asked his father about it, but Ollamon had simply shaken his head. 'When you are ready, all will be clear,' was his only response.
    Adalon could feel himself weakening. He ground his teeth together and felt blood in his mouth. He knew he had to let go of the pipe or he would perish.
    Remember the Claw, he told himself. Hold the moment.
    Adalon banished everything from his mind, apart from the pipe in his hand. Gradually, the pain faded, then vanished – but he barely noticed it had gone. He couldn't see Targesh, nor Simangee, nor the trees, river and castle beyond. All he could see was his clenched fist.
    The entire world paused, and Adalon held on to the moment. Time stretched. In between one heartbeat and the next was an eternity. In this eternity he realised that the pain had not disappeared; he had simply put it aside and looked past it. Without the distraction of the pain, he was able to gather himself. He pondered the muscles in his hands, the tendons, the bones. Open , he ordered, and his fist