The Familiars: Secrets of the Crown - Adam Epstein

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They took cover behind a bookshelf. “Niti wengi,” Dalton read aloud from the Elvish fable. “A great big tree.”

      Aldwyn concentrated on a pear-shaped globe on one of the pedestals and flung it across the room, using only his mind. For a second he was quite pleased with his effort, but then Paksahara effortlessly shot it down. She didn’t see the second globe coming from behind her, though, and it momentarily knocked her off her feet.

      Aldwyn was starting to feel victorious when a sweat-inducing heat boiled up behind him. He turned to find Ramoth, scales aflame, ready to strike with his searing fangs.“Traitor,” shouted Aldwyn.

      “I am a snake after all,” replied Ramoth. He was about to strike, but his attack was thwarted when a splash of water doused the fire burning on his skin.

      Jack stood with an empty jug in hand, the one that had fallen from the reading table but fortunately had not spilled all of its contents. Though stripped of his newly blossoming spellcasting abilities, Jack remained cocky in the face of the danger. He gave Ramoth a swift kick that sent him sailing across the room into a pile of scrolls. Aldwyn and his loyal shared a nod. No words were necessary to communicate their bond.

      Dalton was still struggling with the foreign text – “The warrior travelled to some kind of tree, one whose branches…” he translated as the battle continued. “I’m not sure what these next words mean.”

      And he wasn’t going to have time to figure it out. One of the giant paper-eating grubs shoved its head through the bookshelf and snapped the tome straight out of Dalton’s hand. Even worse, its teeth caught one of his fingers as well, biting it clean off.

      Dalton cried out with pain and stumbled away from his attacker. He shoved his injured hand to his chest and tried to stave off the bleeding with his tunic.

      The loyals and their familiars tried to make a run for it once more, racing past the aisle of whisper shells as the creature chewed the invaluable book to shreds.

      Paksahara was back on her feet, and she seemed quite entertained as she watched one of the other bookworms reach out to swallow Skylar.

      “They say the early bird catches the worm,” the hare said, delighted. “This time, it’s the other way round!”

      The bookworm was just about to bite down on the blue jay when a splintered stick pierced its throat. Queen Loranella had torn off the bristles and used the sharp end of a broomstick as a spear. She gave the handle a twist, and the beast’s head collapsed limply.

      Paksahara flew into a rage. She conjured two massive energy blasts in her palms, then shouted at her opponents – “This was fun. Now prepare to become food for the worms!”

      “Food?!” a groggy voice called out. “Is it breakfast already?”

      Aldwyn spun round to see that Stolix had finally awakened.

      “Quick,” said Edna to her familiar. “Immobilise her!”

      Stolix breathed out her paralysing mist, sending the cool vapours right into Paksahara’s nostrils. The hare’s muscles immediately tightened, and she was rendered motionless, a frozen look of anger on her face.

      The two remaining giant purple worms encircled Paksahara protectively, preventing the wizards and familiars from attacking the defenceless hare.

      “Let’s get out of here,” said the queen. “That spell doesn’t last long.”

      Dalton grabbed Scribius off the floor, and then he and the others were running for the door without looking back. If the Archives held any other clues as to the whereabouts of the Crown of the Snow Leopard, they would soon be lost to the digestive juices of the bookworms.

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      Dalton lay on a slender bed in the Royal Cleric’s chamber as the palace healer’s black raven ran a wing along his arm. During the whole trip back to the New Palace he had clenched his jaw, never once letting on how excruciating the pain must have been. Now Aldwyn watched as the bird’s healing feathers worked their magic. The stump where Dalton’s little finger once was began to puss and ooze as flesh and bone sprang forth, like a newly forming twig on a sapling. Within seconds, it had regenerated itself and looked as good as new.

      Across the room, Marianne sat before a fireplace where wood crackled warmly in the hearth, having been lit by flint and stone rather than a magic spell. She traced her finger along a wrinkled parchment map, while Jack spun a pear-shaped globe in one and then the other direction.

      “A great big tree,” Marianne repeated. “That only narrows it down to, oh, every forest in Vastia.”

      “Could be in the mountains too,” added Jack.

      Sorceress Edna let out a sigh of frustration as she paced behind them. “This is bad, very bad. Even worse than before, I’m afraid.”

      Aldwyn leaped on to the windowsill and looked outside. Night had fallen, and the moon was beginning to rise up over the Yennep Mountains. It was three-quarters full, just seven days away from reaching the end of its lunar phase, when Paksahara’s grim promise would be fulfilled and a new Dead Army would rise. In the courtyard below, Aldwyn could see Queen Loranella standing with a band of cloaked warriors – some the queen’s finest soldiers, others disenchanted wizards – all beside their steeds. Many were accompanied by their familiars. Among them stood Urbaugh, the bearded spellcaster from the council meeting, and his brother. There had been rumours of suspicious activity on the northwestern border of Vastia, and while it was little to go on, in the face of such a grave threat, even the smallest lead was worth pursuing. The queen touched each of the warriors’ shoulders as they bowed before her, then they took to their steeds and rode off.

      “Hmm-hm hm hm-hmm hm hm…”

      Aldwyn spun round to see that the humming was coming from Gilbert yet again, the same melody that had been stuck in the tree frog’s head since their encounter with Agorus.

      “Gilbert,” snapped Aldwyn, exasperated. “What’s with the humming?”

      “No, wait,” said Skylar, suddenly taking great interest in Gilbert’s out-of-tune music making. “Keep going.”

      “Hm hm hm hmm-hm hm?” continued Gilbert.

      Skylar joined in, chirping along in harmony. “Hmm-hm hm hm-hmm hm hm. I know this song. It’s a lullaby. They used to sing it to us at Nearhurst Aviary.” She searched her memory, then began singing. “Hiding high upon its head, Draped in white shimmering gown, Lie the keys to the past, In the snow leopard’s crown. Gilbert, you’ve been trying to give us clues all this time!”

      “I have?” asked the tree frog. “I mean, I have!”

      “There’s more to it, though,” said Skylar. “That’s just the end. How does it start again?”

      Gilbert hummed to himself for a moment.

      “That’s easy,” he said. “When night falls hear the dog’s bark, Howling to the tallest clouds. Secrets of yore buried, Beneath green needle shrouds.”

      “Go on,” said Skylar.

      “That’s all I remember. I always fell asleep right about then.”

      Some long-forgotten memory was bubbling up in Aldwyn too, and when he opened his mouth, the words just tumbled out.

      “When night falls hear the dog’s bark,

      Howling to the tallest clouds.

      Secrets of yore buried,

      Beneath green needle shrouds.

      Between the root of all roots,

      Where every fear sinks away,

      Are stairs with no bottom,

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