Free The King in Reserve by Michael Pryor Page A

him.
    The breeze grew stronger, and as it did the drone became louder. Adalon's teeth ached at the harsh noise that assaulted them, echoing along the tunnel.
    'See?' Simangee shouted, pointing at the way ahead. 'The A'ak were cunning!'
    Adalon narrowed his eyes against the rushing air and stared. Vases? Pots? What were these objects?
    Thrusting up from the tunnel floor were what looked like sawn-off stalagmites of all sizes. Some were taller than he was, others were barely ankle height, but all had flat tops. When Adalon approached, he saw that these stone knobs were hollow – they were pipes.
    'They're making that horrible noise,' Gormond shouted.
    Simangee swayed, but Adalon thought it wasn't the breeze alone that was buffeting his friend. 'Yes.'
    Targesh pointed. Simangee held up the lantern. The wind-catchers also hung from the ceiling and stuck out from the walls at all angles. Their voices joined together, shifting as the wind rose and fell, but always coming together in a chorus that rasped on Adalon's soul.
    'The A'ak have done this,' Simangee cried. She thrust the lantern on Adalon. 'It's a stone wind organ, tuned to their ends. They've channelled the wind and fashioned the pipes to make their ugliness. Do not let it affect you!'
    Adalon felt the sound working on him. He felt sick, his stomach churned – but the noise affected him more profoundly than that. His palms sweated, and every part of him wanted to turn and flee. He felt unworthy to be in such a place.
    Simangee swayed, her hands at her temples, as the wind grew stronger – and the noise swelled. The drone rose to a howl and Adalon's shoulders sagged. It was no good. His efforts were meaningless, his life was a waste. The A'ak were all-powerful and deserved to rule for all time.
    A voice rose over the deadly noise of the stone pipes. 'No,' Simangee said. Adalon heard her quite clearly over the A'ak wind organ, even though she hadn't shouted. He looked at her and saw that her eyes were closed, and tears were running down her agonised face.
    He glanced to either side. Gormond had removed a dagger from his belt and was turning it over with a look of horror on his face. Targesh looked sick, but plucked the knife from the young king and threw it away. Gormond shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself.
    Adalon went to speak, but words shrivelled in his mouth as the A'ak chorus shifted pitch. It still droned and howled, but now he couldn't move. It were as if he'd been turned to stone. He struggled, but it was useless. It took all his effort to keep breathing. Then, with malice, the chorus added another evil strain. A shrieking whistle sliced at him, striking like a blade. He cried out but his voice was lost in the cold, maddening voice of the A'ak.
    Gormond and Targesh were like statues by his side, but their agony was plain in their eyes.
    Only Simangee was able to move. Eyes still shut, she lifted her arms. 'The Way of the Crest rejects the A'ak,' she said in a whisper that wove its way through the howling A'ak chorus, settling gently on Adalon's ears, offering a moment's relief from agony.
    Simangee flinched, as if she'd been struck, but then straightened and began to hum. Adalon had heard her do this many, many times. Her great, curving crest was full of resonating chambers and she used it as a fine musical instrument. Each Crested One's crest was different, an individual marvel attuned to them alone.
    Simangee's tune was simple at first, a series of soothing notes which deflected the A'ak chorus. Adalon gasped as the pain eased a little. He could move again. He took Gormond's arm. 'Hurry,' he shouted.
    Targesh seized the young king's other arm and together they half-carried him through the maze of stone pipes. Simangee went with them, singing each step of the way, keeping the evil voice of the A'ak organ from them. Adalon could feel it battering at them, but its brute power was deflected by the changing nature of Simangee's song. It was delicate; it