The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  The Lost Prince

  J.W. Webb

  Copyright 2015 J W Webb

  J.W. Webb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author to this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

  Acknowledgement and thanks to:

  Catherine Romano, for editing

  Julia Gibbs, @ProofreadJulia, for proofreading

  Roger Garland, www.lakeside-gallery.com, for illustration

  Debbi Stocco, MyBookDesigner.com, for book design

  Ravven, ravven.kitsune@gmail.com, for cover art.

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9863507-4-0 (Paperback)

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9863507-5-7 (Digital)

  For my stepson Rhys

  ‘A man to be proud of.’

  Table of Contents

  Part One | Raleen

  Rascals

  Renegades

  Hints and Innuendos

  Gribble

  Port Sarfe

  An Acquaintance Renewed

  A Score Settled

  An Old Friend

  Vioyamis

  The Merchant’s Council

  The Gardens at Dusk

  The Warlord

  Part Two | Permio

  Beyond The Liaho

  Nomads

  The Streets of Agmandeur

  Ambush

  Syrannos

  A Change of Course

  The Note

  The Faen

  The Silver Strand

  Wynais

  The High Dunes

  Doubts and Delusions

  The Copper Desert

  Shifting Patterns

  Fire and Ice

  Part Three | Beneath The Mountains

  The Crystal Mountains

  Mercenaries

  The Warrior Queen

  The Voice

  At the Forge of Croagon

  The Awakening

  The Clash in the Pit

  The Smith

  Part Four | War

  Calprissa

  The Tekara

  The Crimson Elite

  Ariane of the Swords

  The Challenge

  At the Oasis

  The West Wall

  The East Wall

  The Assassin

  A Sting in the Tale

  The Return of Old Night

  Glossary

  Part One | Raleen

  Chapter 1

  Rascals

  Silon hated Permio. It wasn’t just the noise and smell of the place, or the constant threat of danger. This desert country had a different feel to it than anywhere within the Four Kingdoms. It was always so hot here. Not to mention the stink and noise. Gone were the cool breezes that blessed his beloved vineyards in Raleen. The merchant was less than a hundred miles from his home, but he found it impossible to relax.

  He was in Cappel Cormac—the stinking, festering home of every villain and cutpurse imaginable. And in this city Silon was a wanted man.

  News had reached the coffee rooms of Permio’s second largest city concerning the events in Crenna last month. Silon knew he had little time here and must return home quickly. Nor did he wish to linger, as every minute spent here was beyond dangerous.

  The merchant waited restlessly for the contact he’d arranged to meet in this seedy place. A coffee house—dark, dirty and cluttered with unsavoury characters.

  That man’s choice, not his. Silon would have preferred somewhere quieter, perhaps nearer the wealthy quarter of the city. But he had bowed to the other man’s knowledge. Besides this place was close to the quay, and ships sailed frequently across to Raleen. It wouldn’t prove difficult slipping aboard one should the sultan’s soldiers spot him. They would be very keen to apprehend him, those soldiers. The sultan in his wisdom had placed a price on Silon’s head of two thousand crannels.

  A tidy sum. All because he was suspected of smuggling contraband across the bay. It was just as well they didn’t know his real business.

  The room was harsh with voices and swirling smoke stung Silon’s eyes, both tobacco and subtler substances. The smell of coffee beans and body sweat clung to his nostrils. Silon looked down with practiced disdain as a beggar held out a wooden bowl. The merchant signalled and the man was carried outside and pitched into the filthy street below. Cappel Cormac was a pitiless place. Any act of kindness would be noticed here.

  Silon pulled the hood of his brown burnoose down over his forehead, shrouding his features. Quietly he studied the occupants at the tables around him.

  Over to his right, a couple of swarthy merchants were speaking in furtive whispers, glancing up occasionally from their piping bowls of coffee. Behind them leaned a tanned handsome warrior, from Sedinadola by his look. He was flirting shamelessly with the dark-eyed beauty in the corner.

  The tavern was busy with folk coming and going. Silon noticed the odd northerner sweating in the dusty heat and looking uncomfortably conspicuous. At the back of the smoky room sat a huge black warrior who appeared to be grinning at nothing in particular. He had a ferocious look and his teeth gleamed like perfect pearls. Silon locked eyes with the man briefly before dropping his gaze. It did not pay to stare too long in a place like this.

  A soft sound. Silon glanced up carefully when the seat was taken beside him. He nodded slowly at the newcomer. His contact’s face was deeply tanned beneath the scarlet shemagh. It was a hard face, lined with thin scars and dominated by a hooked nose. The eyes were coaly black and crow-sharp as they acknowledged the merchant of Raleen.

  “I trust that you are fit, my old friend?” the newcomer asked in a dry voice hinting at the arid winds of the desert.

  “Indeed I am, Barakani,” replied Silon. “You look as vigorous as ever,” he added. “I trust that your seven sons are all well.”

  “Yes,” the desert chief grinned at Silon. “Their strength waxes alongside their impatience. Those boys have little time for our subtleties, my friend. They would prefer to act now, as indeed would I were the time right.”

  “That time draws close, Barakani,” Silon leaned forward to whisper in the other’s ear. “However, there is another issue I hope you can assist me with.”

  Barakani raised a shrewd brow. “If I can.”

  “Something has occurred which I did not anticipate.” Silon leaned closer. “Something of great import. I heard voices in the marketplace claiming a young nobleman from the north had recently passed through the city, seeking a guide into the deep desert. A strange request that, don’t you think?”

  “Very strange,” replied Barakani with a secret smile. “You wish to know his identity—this youth?” The merchant nodded slowly and Barakani continued in hushed tones.

  “He is your missing prince. I am certain of it. I had one of my men follow him through the city seeing he came to no harm. The boy was dressed shabbily and looked travelworn, but I would recognise Kelsalion’s wayward son anywhere.”

  Silon smiled. “I sometimes forget how familiar you are with the northlands, my old friend. Is it true you served in the Tigers for a time?”

  “I wanted to learn how you northerners fight should you ever invade our lands again,” grinned Barakani.

  “Well, I am in your debt,” responded Silon with a sigh of relief. “The fool boy was mad coming here alone, I doubt whether he would have made it out of the docks without your help.”

  “Maybe not,” replied Barakani. “But the boy didn’t seem that helpless. Strangely, everyone saw him and yet no one intervened—something unheard of i
n Cappel Cormac. And why would he come here? There are far safer places to flee to even in Permio. It’s very odd.”

  “Odder than you think.”

  “Ah…” Barakani took a slow sip from his piping coffee. He glanced about the crowded room before continuing with a sour expression. “The sultan’s soldiers are crawling all over this city; his supreme ugliness suspects everyone, not just northern merchants, my friend. I saw no advantage in the prince being taken to Sedinadola for questioning. So I bid one of my men escort him into the desert, as was his wish.”

  “Where was Tarin’s destination?” asked Silon.

  “He wouldn’t reveal it. Said only that he desired seeing the Crystal Mountains in the far south. A transparent lie or else a most peculiar desire—I couldn’t tell which.”

  “And risk the Ty-Tander’s fiery breath!” Silon raised an eyebrow. “How bizarre. Stories concerning that beast have often been heard in the courtrooms at Kella City. Tarin will be well aware of the risk he’s taking. And that prince is not known for his boldness.”

  “My own thoughts exactly,” responded Barakani. “But just who has put him up to this, Silon? And why?”

  “I don’t know and it worries me, my friend,” responded the merchant. Silon took a sip of his drink and sighed. “Another shadowy player in the game, I suspect. At least we can assume he’s not an ally of Caswallon.”

  “But what would the boy’s mystery helper hope to achieve by such a venture?”

  Barakani winced as his coffee found a sensitive tooth. “Could it be what I think?”

  “It might be.” Silon smiled slightly and changed the subject, Barakani’s hawk gaze was curious but he let it go. These two needed each other—diplomacy was about give and take, after all. And there were some subjects too dangerous even for whispers.

  “I am awaiting friends from the north.” Silon took another wary sip at his coffee. “Queen Ariane leads them, the same lot who escaped Crenna a while ago on Captain Barin’s ship. They can’t be far from Raleen now. That’s if they managed to evade the Assassin’s pursuit.”

  “Why would they make for Raleen? Isn’t Ariane Queen of Wynais?”

  “Call it a hunch.” Silon sipped and smiled. “After the excitement at Crenna, roads from the sea to the Silver city will be watched tirelessly by Caswallon and Hakkenon, and it was agreed between us that Ariane would journey here after returning home. Thus my assumption being she skipped Wynais and headed due south.”

  Barakani grinned like an old wolf. “Rael Hakkenon won’t be in a happy state of mind. He’s not used to being thwarted so easily.” The Assassin was well known and feared in Permio too. There were rumours that Rael had accepted contracts from the sultan himself during the latter’s early reign.

  Silon nodded. “True enough. My spies sent word from that island via pigeon to my villa the other week. A dangerous business for which I take some responsibility. Queen Ariane was involved and the mercenary Corin who I told you about. He in particular will be able to help us in this business as he knows Permio.”

  “The business being…?”

  Silon smiled slowly. Barakani always like playing these games. The wily desert chief was well aware of Silon’s gambit. “We have to find the lost prince before our enemies do. That will involve individuals with specific skills. Corin being one. I need your assurance of their safe passage through the dunes.”

  Barakani laughed quietly, “You ask much, merchant. The sultan’s spies are even more commonplace than his soldiers. And there are northern mercenaries in Permio already. I passed them several days ago. A rough lot, I assume in the pay of Caswallon. Word must have got out to him of Tarin’s intended destination. Though quite how I cannot guess.”

  “Gribble most likely.”

  “And who might he be?”

  “A winged goblin—Caswallon’s new spy. My people in Kella sent word about it.”

  “Interesting.” Barakani let that one go. “The mercenary captain I saw looked familiar. Tall. Lean. Hard grey eyes.”

  “That will be Hagan Delmorier.”

  “The renegade Morwellan?”

  “The same. You know him too?”

  “I heard about his reputation during the war,” replied Barakani. “A cold proud bastard they say.”

  “Aye, that’ll be him.” Silon frowned. Hagan hadn’t wasted any time coming south, there were reports of his whereabouts in Kashorn village less than two months ago. Doubtless he was looking for Queen Ariane but fortunately had had no luck. It was just as well he didn’t come across Corin an Fol. Silon needed Corin focussing on the task ahead. Hagan and Silon’s former employee were not best of friends.

  Silon studied the shrewd eyes of the man seated opposite him. Barakani was relaxed and at ease in the coffee room, despite a price on his head in this city that made Silon’s two thousand crannels a paltry sum. Barakani wasn’t called the Wolf of the Desert for nothing. He had earned his reputation, as had his sons—all seven.

  “I know I ask a lot, old friend,” Silon whispered. “But no one knows the desert as well as you and your boys. I see a real chance here. We can thwart the sultan’s plans, placing you nearer to the throne of Permio—your rightful place.”

  “I will do what I can. When will your people arrive?”

  “I don’t know and that worries me. Time is short and I expected them in Port Sarfe over a week ago. I’ve heard nothing since they escaped from Crenna.”

  “Perhaps they were delayed.”

  Silon nodded and took a long controlled sip from his cooled coffee before continuing. “One final question.”

  “Go on.”

  “Did Tarin carry a sack upon his person? A small bag, perchance?”

  Barakani shrugged, shaking his head. “Of that I know nothing. But it would seem unlikely—even those unwilling to gut the boy would have taken his belongings. This is Cappel Cormac.”

  “Yes, that’s what I feared.”

  “Leave these matters with me, Silon.” Barakani’s crafty eyes were scanning the tavern. “We have said enough,” he added in a whisper. “We are being observed, my friend.”

  “Who?” answered Silon without looking round.

  “A large fellow, black skinned—most likely a warrior from the distant south. They occasionally visit to trade. This one looks a confidant bastard. He is sitting in the far corner behind you. He’s clever—I only just caught his eye. A spy for certain.”

  “Yes, I noticed him earlier,” responded Silon. “Think you he’s in the sultan’s pay?” he asked in a whisper.

  “I do not know,” responded the desert chief. “But this is Cappel Cormac. Few strangers here are who they appear to be. You and I included, my friend.”

  They spoke for a while in hushed whispers before finishing their coffee in a leisurely manner. Silon stood up, made a show of fastidiously dusting his faded brown burnoose and then quietly left the tavern. He waited out of sight for some moments, saw Barakani emerge, nodded briefly in his direction and then faded subtly into the crowd.

  Silon was worried. He’d better be getting back to his villa fast. If by some miracle Prince Tarin still had the remnants of the Tekara on his person they were in with a chance—albeit a only fool’s chance. But the idiot prince must be protected at all cost. And before they could protect him they needed to find him.

  And why would he make for the Crystal Mountains if he didn’t have the remnants of the Tekara? No, thought Silon, Tarin must still have the shards. It was the only logical explanation for his being here. But as to what mental state Tarin would be in after being holed up in Kranek Castle?

  Silon would have to act fast. He needed Corin. Corin knew northern Permio better than he did. But where were they? The voyage south shouldn’t have taken them this long. And just who had put Tarin up to this? Doubtless the same individual that freed the boy from the Assassin? And evidently some while before Queen Ariane’s party arrived unwitting in Kranek harbour. It irked Silon that someone acted outside his circle of knowled
ge. A freelancer playing a subtle game. But just whose side was he on? And who was he?

  The questions kept coming. Silon hurried down towards the dockyard, jostling his way through the bustling crowd. Angry faces glared at him as he shoved past, and skinny dogs snarled and yapped. Down at the quayside he spotted a Morwellan trader—one of the few that recently escaped the sack of Vangaris harbour. She was making ready to leave port. Silon suspected the vessel would stop off at Port Sarfe before heading north to winter at Calprissa now Vangaris had fallen to the barbarian fleet. Silon stepped up his pace turning into a narrow alley.

  Too late he realised his mistake.

  Footsteps approaching fast from behind. The sound of steel slicing air. Silon ducked low as a robed figure with a purple sash swung a tulwar at him from behind.

  He slammed his right shoulder back into his assailant’s chest, forcing the big man off balance. Then Silon twisted and rammed his knee up hard into his attacker’s groin. The man buckled and Silon kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling. Silon turned to run.

  Again too late.

  Two other men had arrived in the alley. These blocked his way ahead. Silon recognised them at once. They were the sultan’s finest warriors. The Crimson Elite, named for the long cloaks they wore in honour of their ruler. These approached at speed, barring his way. The first one swung his blade as he leapt at Silon. Again the whoosh of steel through air.

  But Silon was ready. He grabbed the nearest soldier’s outthrust arm with his right hand. Then pulling him forward, Silon rammed his left palm hard up into the man’s nose, snapping the bone. The soldier sunk to the floor, the curved blade clattering beside him.

  Clutching his secret dagger Silon knelt, swiftly despatching the sultan’s soldier with a slice along his throat.

  The remaining soldier hung back, seeing his accomplice so easily bested. Then he grinned, seeing the first assailant regain his feet amid curses and, tulwar raised, approach Silon from behind. Silon was trapped in the dirty alley, his back against the wall. They closed on him slowly, each wishing to savour the moment. Their broad tulwars held ready and hatred burning in their eyes.