The Missing Kin by Michael Pryor Page A

link between the land and the saur,
but in elusive and roundabout ways. Wargrach had
little patience for such mystical stuff, but one of
the parchments – one he'd stumbled on years ago
– hinted at the return of the A'ak.
    It was a single page, battered and water-stained.
It was obviously the conclusion to a much longer
document. Toward the end the tone of the writing
changed from dry and detached to what Wargrach
could only describe as terrified. The script became
rushed, as if the writer was running out of time. It
finished shrilly, with confused warnings of stone
monsters, the advance guard for the A'ak.
    The prospect made Wargrach grind his sharp,
predator teeth. The A'ak would be a formidable foe
indeed. He growled, deep in his throat, a natural
Toothed One reaction to a threat. Then he began to
think.
    Toothed Ones were not renowned for their
cleverness. Their strength lay in their willingness to
fight and not give in. Toothed One military tactics
usually favoured the all-out, life-or-death charge
into the face of the enemy.
    Wargrach was different. He knew that strength
was important, but cunning was just as useful. Staring
at the ancient writings that foretold the return of the
A'ak, his devious mind began to race.
    If the A'ak were to return, surely they would need
an ally, someone who knew the best way to exploit
the saur of Krangor?
    Slowly, Wargrach began to smile.

Ten
    Around Adalon, Targesh and Simangee, the Horned
Ones were transformed. No longer were they
sitting blankly watching. Some were slumped in their
seats, others had their heads in their hands. Many were
crying wretchedly or embracing. A few had been injured
by flying debris when the Old One shattered, and they
were being tended by saur who seemed grateful for
something to do.
    The doors were thrown open wide by guards
who stumbled in looking both dazed and horrified.
At this, the Horned Ones stampeded from the tiered
seats, an avalanche of bellowing saur, maddened with
shame and shock. With anguished cries, they crushed
through the doorway and escaped into the ruins.
Even the wounded couldn't bear to stay behind, and
they were carried by willing helpers.
    'They're ignoring us,' Simangee murmured. She
was kneeling by Targesh's side, stroking his brow.
'We should go.'
    The bleeding had stopped, but Adalon's heart
sank at how pale his friend was. 'Wait.'
    A sole figure remained on the tiered benches.
Slowly, she stood, the old female Horned One. She
lurched down the aisle, skirting a large chunk of rock
that had come to rest near the front rank of seats.
She, too, was changed. It looked as if the weight of
a thousand years had fallen on her shoulders: her
back was bowed, her scales were dull, her skin was
loose and sagging. Adalon saw this in an instant, but
all these details seemed unimportant when he came
to her eyes. They were haunted, full of suffering –
the suffering that comes from guilt, shame and
dishonour.
    She blinked at Adalon and reached out a hand.
'I . . . we . . .' She looked away, but when her
gaze touched the watery shaft in the middle of the
chamber, she shuddered and turned back to the three
friends. 'I feel as if I've just woken from a dream.
A bad dream.'
    Targesh groaned. 'Our friend needs help,' Adalon
said.
    The old female stared at Targesh's ruined horn
and shook her head in wonder. 'Such a sacrifice.'
    'Will he be all right?' Simangee demanded.
    The old female faltered. 'I don't know. When we
were enslaved by the creature born of A'ak magic, it
took our Horned One heritage. The things we have
done . . .' Her hands opened and closed, groping.
'The Way of the Horn is lost to us. We are nothing.'
    She reached for Targesh, but drew back before
touching him. 'We are nothing,' she repeated.
    Adalon tried to imagine living without the Way
of the Claw. Its guidance was a firm foundation for
conducting his life. Its precepts defined what it was to
be an honourable Clawed One. He could understand
why the Horned Ones would feel lost