The Familiars #3: Circle of Heroes Read online

  “How long do you think it will be before the beasts topple the first of the glyphstones?” asked Jack.

  “The queen’s soldiers are brave,” answered Dalton, who had torn off a piece of his sleeve and was using it as a tourniquet on his injured leg. “But courage gives little advantage in a battle like this.”

  Then several glass jars floated out of the darkness. As they bobbed in the water, Aldwyn could see that each had a different spider corked inside. There was little doubt in his mind that they had belonged to the merchant who had paddled off when they first arrived. And Aldwyn suspected the man would not have let his precious arachnids go unless something horrible had befallen him.

  Gilbert shot his tongue out over the edge of their skiff and scooped up one of the jars, which held a prickly rose-colored spider.

  “Really, Gilbert?” asked Aldwyn.

  “What? I could get hungry later,” replied the tree frog.

  The boat stopped moving as the hull ground up against something hidden in the murk. Despite their attempts to paddle past it, they were unsuccessful: the boat was stuck.

  “What is it?” asked Jack.

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Begrudgingly, Grimslade slipped off his jacket, belt, and crossbow.

  He swung his legs into the water and found himself standing in muck up to his waist. He used all his might to push the boat free. It started drifting forward again and Grimslade was about to pull himself back in when to everyone’s surprise, he was tugged under.

  Loyals and familiars were struck speechless. It was impossible to see anything below the murky surface. Suddenly, Grimslade burst through the water, gasping for air. Right behind him was a zombie crocodile bigger than the whole boat, with shreds of Grimslade’s cloak in its teeth. Dalton grabbed the crossbow and pointed it at the zombie, firing a bolt into the rotting reptile’s corpse. Unaffected, the crocodile dove back under, pulling Grimslade with him. The stray hunter disappeared again.

  Aldwyn bravely stuck his head and paw into the sludge, but it was in vain. There was no sign of Grimslade or the undead creature. Then, just as he was about to come back up for air, Aldwyn heard Grimslade’s voice. It was both far away and yet as clear as if Grimslade was speaking right into his ear.

  This is not how I’m going to the Tomorrowlife.

  Aldwyn darted his head to the left and then to the right, but he couldn’t see where the voice was coming from. Then he was pulled back out of the water by Jack.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” said Jack. “Come on.”

  “We can’t just leave him,” said Aldwyn.

  With a roaring splash, the rotting head of the zombie crocodile emerged once more. It lunged viciously toward them again, taking a bite out of the wooden stern. Dalton, Jack, and Marianne paddled with all their strength through the tunnel and didn’t stop until they reached a small opening in the city wall, which took them out of the sewers and into a moat that stretched across the northern side of Bridgetower. Aldwyn looked back into the darkness and was surprised to feel a pang of loss for Grimslade, who had once been his biggest enemy.

  Now out of the city, the group came ashore safely on the far side of the moat, near a dense tangle of trees. Dalton grabbed Grimslade’s belt and leather pouch in one hand and his crossbow in the other, then climbed out of the boat with Skylar on his shoulder. The others followed him, running for the cover of the nearby woods.

  Once under the tall trees, Aldwyn, Skylar, Gilbert, and their three loyals decided to stop and catch their breath, resting on fallen logs and mossy rocks.

  But their short-lived break was interrupted by a thunderous crash. Aldwyn turned toward the source of the noise and watched as the walls of Bridgetower crumbled. Bricks were trampled underfoot as Paksahara’s Dead Army flooded into the city.

  “There will be no stopping them now,” said Dalton.

  Aldwyn looked to the town center, where the glyphstone was being guarded, and wondered just how long it would remain standing.

  2

  BEYOND THE ALABASTER WALL

  “We’ll have to avoid the main road,” said Dalton, who had flattened Scribius’s map out before them and was tracing a path with his finger from Bridgetower to Split River.

  Aldwyn could see out of the corner of his eye that Skylar was shaking her head and ruffling her feathers.

  “Dalton’s right,” said Marianne. “We can follow the Ebs all the way. According to Galleon’s letters, he and Banshee reside in a place called the Inn of the Golden Chalice.”

  Skylar couldn’t hold her beak any longer.

  “No,” she said. “It’s too far and too dangerous. Without magic, you three cannot join us on this mission. Queen Loranella said it herself. She only allowed you to come to Bridgetower with us because you were under the protection of her guards.”

  “We can take care of ourselves,” said Dalton.

  “Did you see what happened to those soldiers?” asked Skylar.

  “And Grimslade?” added Aldwyn.

  “Are you suggesting we return to Bronzhaven?” asked Dalton.

  “No,” said Skylar. “You’d never make it that far.”

  “I can hold my own,” Dalton insisted. “Even without magic.”

  Skylar eyed the blood-soaked tourniquet wrapped around Dalton’s calf. Her loyal winced but remained stoic.

  “Stone Runlet is less than a half day’s trip from here,” said Skylar. “You can hide out in Kalstaff’s cellar. The alabaster walls will be able to ward off any attackers.”

  As usual, Skylar’s logic was hard to argue with, and eventually Dalton relented. It was decided that the familiars would accompany their loyals back to Stone Runlet. Then the familiars would set off to find the seven descendants of the First Phylum on their own.

  The group made its way through the Aridifian Plains. Aldwyn looked up at the night sky and was reminded of the three stars that had danced and twisted above the treetops, prophesizing that three from Stone Runlet would save Vastia from danger. Although at first he had found it impossible to believe that he, a simple alley cat, was supposed to be one of the Three, he had come to accept the prophecy as true and put complete faith in its magical certainty.

  As Aldwyn and Jack walked side by side, Aldwyn’s tail brushed up against the boy’s leg. He always felt secure and easy when he was next to his loyal. There were moments when he was tempted to ask to be lifted into Jack’s arms, yearning to be even closer to him, but he knew that he was no longer the one who needed looking after. Their roles had been reversed, and now it was Aldwyn who needed to comfort Jack.

  “Don’t worry,” he told his loyal, who was clearly still shaken from the dangerous escape through Bridgetower’s sewers. “Soon this will all be over, and we’ll be back to wand flight racing.”

  “We were getting pretty good at that.” A smile played over Jack’s face. “If we get a little more practice in, we might even be able to compete on the Warlock Trail.”

  “If nothing else, a rematch against Gilbert and Marianne,” said Aldwyn.

  Skylar led them forward, flying above a dry expanse of scorched plains. Thousands of tiny anthills dotted the ground, each spitting out bits of red lava. This was the work of volcano ants, and while Skylar had the luxury of soaring over them, Aldwyn, Gilbert, and the three loyals had to be careful to avoid the scalding rivulets of magma. It was hard not to torch the bottoms of their feet.

  They had made it halfway across the burning sands when they saw a flock of winged eyeballs flapping in their direction.

  Paksahara’s spyballs!

  At Skylar’s signal, they stopped walking and huddled close, while the blue jay cast an illusion. A thorny bush appeared around them, hiding them from sight. Unexpectedly, the spyballs dove in for a landing. But instead of heading for the bush, they began sucking up volcano ants and kicking up plumes of sand.

  The six remained still within the illusion, watching as the eyes feasted on red ants. Aldwyn held his breath. He became so quiet
he could hear whispers coming from the shells dangling from his father’s necklace. But his attention was quickly diverted when one spyball got within paw’s reach of the bush. Aldwyn had never seen one so close before. He stared directly into the winged eyeball’s pupil. To his surprise, he could see Paksahara standing in a cold, square room at the very top of the Shifting Fortress. She was pouring a black powder into a summoning horn. A crystal urn that reached from floor to ceiling stood beside her, filled with wisps of different-colored smoke. Aldwyn could see that the traitorous gray hare was chanting something aloud to herself. As long as the Shifting Fortress remained hidden, Paksahara would be undefeatable. Aldwyn knew they couldn’t let that happen: they had to bring the seven descendants of the First Phylum together in a circle around one of the glyphstones to summon the Fortress. Only then could they attack the evil hare and strip her of her powers.

  Aldwyn turned back to his companions and saw that some of the sand kicked up by the spyballs had gotten into Gilbert’s eyes and nose. The tree frog’s eyes bulged as he struggled not to sneeze. Aldwyn put a paw up to his friend’s mouth, and Skylar threw a wing over his nose. Gilbert’s chest puffed up and his eyes watered as they continued to muffle him. Luckily, before Gilbert lost all control, the eyeballs took to the air. Aldwyn and Skylar waited until the winged spies had disappeared over the horizon. As soon as they removed paw and wing, Gilbert let out a thunderous sneeze.

  “You know, they say holding back a sneeze can be very dangerous,” said Gilbert. “It can make the veins in your head pop.”

  “You know what else can be very dangerous?” asked Skylar. “Having Paksahara hunt you down and kill you.”

  “True,” said Gilbert. “I’m just saying that spontaneous brain explosion would not be a fun way to go.”

  “I saw Paksahara,” interrupted Aldwyn.

  “What?” asked a panicked Gilbert. “Where?” He spun around on high alert, as if the gray hare might sneak up on him at any moment.

  “Through the spyball,” said Aldwyn. “She was in the Shifting Fortress, pouring a black powder into a summoning horn.”

  “She must have been raising more animals from their graves to fight in her army of the dead,” said Skylar.

  The blue jay dispelled her illusion before turning to the loyals.

  “We need to get you to that cellar,” she said. “Paksahara’s army is growing stronger.”

  Passing through a field of sweet-smelling berries, Aldwyn knew they were getting close to Stone Runlet. The tiny stream that gave the place its name came into view, and soon afterward, they spotted what had once been Kalstaff’s cottage. Aldwyn looked on it with a heavy heart. He’d lived in the old wizard’s peaceful home for magical learning and study before it was reduced to rubble during a battle between Kalstaff and Paksahara. On that fateful night, Paksahara had arrived in the guise of Queen Loranella to kidnap the three loyals. Kalstaff tried to stop her, but Paksahara was too powerful, sending him to the Tomorrowlife with a deadly blow.

  “When my magic returns, I’m going to rebuild this cottage,” said Marianne, choking up.

  Dalton took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

  “We’ve got to get you down to the cellar,” said Skylar. “We’ve been lucky so far, but who knows when another flock of spyballs will pass overhead.”

  They hurried through the tall grass toward the pair of iron doors that marked the entrance to the underground hideaway. The metal cellar hasp was sealed shut from the rusting bond Paksahara had cast during her battle with Kalstaff. Skylar dipped her wing into her satchel and removed some ground glow worm. She sprinkled it on the latch and waited as it ate through the rust.

  “We’ll make sure the warding spells are still active,” said Skylar. “Then the three of us will be on our way.”

  Jack pulled open the doors and everyone went inside. Nearing the bottom of the stairwell, there was a noticeable drop in temperature, and the creamy orange-and-white-speckled walls became cool to the touch. Jugs of persimmon wine and barrels of dilled apples were stored in neat rows along with pickled corn and radish cider.

  “At least we won’t go hungry,” said Marianne.

  “But we might suffocate if Jack can’t take a bath,” said Dalton, teasing the younger wizard.

  Jack smiled good-naturedly, taking the ribbing in stride. Aldwyn thought that Jack might be the youngest now, but in a few years his magic would outshine both Dalton’s and Marianne’s—assuming human magic returned, of course. Then he’d be the one making the jokes.

  Skylar dipped a wing back into her satchel and blew a plume of silver dust into the air, incanting, “Dust of Eckles, knowledge calls, use your gift and search the walls!”

  The tiny cloud of particles spread far and wide, covering every inch of the four alabaster walls and the ceiling.

  “If there are any cracks in the magic seal that protects this chamber, this will expose them,” explained Skylar.

  All the walls glowed brightly when the enchanted dust came into contact with them. Even the two iron doors sparkled with the distinct golden hue of wizardly protection. Aldwyn was satisfied that Jack and the other loyals would be safe here, until Gilbert piped up from over by the pickled corn.

  “Um, guys,” he croaked. “Why is this part of the wall charred black?”

  Everyone turned to look, and sure enough, there on one of the four alabaster walls, behind all the glow, they could see the gray outline of an archway.

  “It looks like a hidden chamber,” said Dalton.

  He leaned his shoulder against the wall and pushed open a secret doorway, revealing a second room of equal size built just behind the first. Although the dimensions were identical, the items housed within were anything but. In place of food rations, there were relics from Kalstaff’s younger years: not only dusty tomes but chain mail robes scuffed from battle and the twin swords wielded by Kalstaff when the first Dead Army had tried to conquer the land many, many years ago.

  A particularly ominous-looking suit of armor was mounted on the wall. Just glancing at it made Aldwyn’s fur stand on end. It was the color of bone, and a cool steam emanated from its faceplate, as if something within was still breathing. A smoky diamond was embedded in the forehead of the mask and there were three other indentations: one in each glove and a third in the chest piece, where matching diamonds must have once been placed. Aldwyn was surprised to recognize the helmet. He had seen it before in a whistlegrass vision, while following his father’s glowing paw prints in search of the Crown of the Snow Leopard. The vision formed by the enchanted blades of grass was of the original Dead Army Uprising. And the helmet had been worn by one of the dark mages leading the undead, Wyvern or Skull; Aldwyn wasn’t sure which, but either way, he could feel the pull of evil from the accursed armor.

  Aldwyn wasn’t the only one awed by the hidden treasures of their former teacher. Skylar was slowly flying along the bookshelf, reading each of the titles. Gilbert eyed vials of unlabeled potions, then asked the question Aldwyn had been thinking.

  “Why would Kalstaff keep all this stuff a secret?” Gilbert looked around curiously.

  “Maybe he was protecting us,” said Marianne.

  “From what?” asked Gilbert.

  That creepy helmet, for starters, Aldwyn thought.

  At the far end of the chamber was a writing desk where Aldwyn’s eyes were drawn to something dangling over the edge of a jewelry box: a silver anklet embedded with squares of emerald. Only the Noctonati, a secret sect of knowledge seekers to which Skylar also belonged, wore them. These humans and animals believed learning magic and searching for answers to all of life’s mysteries was even more important than the laws of the land.

  “Skylar, come look at this,” called Aldwyn, curious to know what she’d make of it.

  The blue jay fluttered over to the desk. When she saw the anklet, her face filled with surprise.

  “People said Kalstaff had once been a member of the Noctonati,” said Skylar. “I just never
believed it.”

  She took the anklet in her talon and pointed at an inscription: KGM.

  “Kalstaff’s initials,” she said. “So it was true.”

  Beside a nearby bookshelf, Gilbert sat on Marianne’s shoulder. She was flipping through one of Kalstaff’s handwritten diaries.

  “Do you think you should be reading that?” he asked. “It’s private.”

  “Did you know that Kalstaff and Queen Loranella were once romantically involved?” asked Marianne, rapt. “Until the Mountain Alchemist came between them!”

  “It really feels wrong to be snooping like this,” insisted Gilbert. He paused for a moment, then curiosity got the better of him. “Well, what did the Alchemist do?”

  “He stole her away for himself,” said Marianne.

  “Listen to this,” said Dalton, interrupting them. He was reading a different journal. “Here, he writes about taking Galleon on a trip into the dream world. It’s one of the final tests of a graduating wizard.”

  Aldwyn was less interested by the personal revelations in Kalstaff’s diaries; his attention kept getting drawn back to the helmet, which was now sending plumes of cold air out through its nostril holes. He watched as a wisp of chilled vapor slithered through the still air and wrapped itself around a book with no title on its binding. A slight gust swept the book open to a spot in the middle. Aldwyn looked at the page in front of him and saw words written on the parchment in a shaky handwriting. Most of the time, Kalstaff had dictated to Scribius when he needed something to be written, but on rare occasions he wrote notes to the young wizards himself. Clearly, it seemed whatever had been recorded here was so personal Scribius hadn’t transcribed it.

  I have become troubled lately by a great fallacy that many Vastians have taken to be truth: that all prophecies are divine and certain. My studies are beginning to uncover that this may not be the case at all. Take Eradeigh Wallus, the young goose farmer destined to wield Brannfalk’s sword against a herd of tunneler dragons. He tried and failed, and all of the northern villages fell to the beasts’ mighty horns as a result. And he was not the only one. The Flora Sisters never built the Sapphire Temple. No legendary hymns could be written about the prophesized warriors of Marth, since they never even rode into battle at all. History only seems to remember the prophecies that come true and turns a blind eye to the ones that do not. A warning to those with a destiny of their own: just because it is written in the stars does not make it so. These words will surely cause great worry among all who depend on the fates protecting them. I must think long and hard before choosing to share them.