The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  Silon braced himself for the deathblow. He shut his eyes.

  Moments passed—nothing.

  Silon heard a loud grunt of pain followed by a meaty thud and the sound of a body hitting the dusty ground. A brief clang of steel followed then another groan and thud. Then a heavy voice laughed and Silon opened his eyes.

  Standing before him, outlandishly dressed and grinning broadly, was the huge black warrior from the tavern. Slung across his back was the most extravagant array of weapons Silon had ever seen. In his sinewy left fist the huge stranger clutched a gold-capped cudgel. That gold was currently stained with the blood of the two soldiers he’d just brained. The stranger grinned as he reached down, hoisting Silon to his feet. The merchant gasped, for the man’s grip was like iron.

  “I am in your debt,” he coughed. “May I ask your name?”

  “I am Ulani, King of Yamondo,” answered the stranger. His voice rich, deep and musical. “I have been seeking a merchant from Port Sarfe by the name of Silon.”

  “Well, I’m happy to report you have found him,” responded Silon. Awhile later at the quayside, and after the merchant had booked his passage, the stranger told his tale. It was then that Silon realised their troubles had only just begun.

  Chapter 2

  Renegades

  A beast’s cry in the night. Shrill and eerie, unlike anything she’d heard before. What foul creature could own such a voice? There it came again, closer this time, a weird howl too high pitched for a wolf’s cry. Something hunted—something close.

  Shallan opened her eyes and blinked at the cold grey predawn light. She wanted to stay wrapped in her blanket, hidden and safe. But there was no safety for her anymore. She and her father were fugitives in an enemy land. Two weary strangers on the run. Shallan’s face paled as howling broke out across the valley below where she and the duke lay nestled in the false security of their copse. More canine baying and barking, but these were not hounds or wolves. Shallan wanted to cover her ears and scream out loud. Instead she kept still, slowed her wild heartbeat, and tried to gauge their distance. There were many. And they were close.

  Shallan rolled free of her blanket. The horses had gone—how was it they hadn’t heard that? One of the bridles still hung twisted and broken from the branch she’d tethered her mare to late last night. Poor things, they must have been terrified. And now they had gone—bolted off into the gloom. Shallan blinked at the hoofprints a half score yards away. Tangled tracks on muddy ground. A light dusting of snow coated the earth, and thin rime in a puddle close by cast back the half-moon’s white face as he spilled free of wary cloud.

  Shallan saw them then. Ungainly figures, distorted shapes shambling and jostling, barking and growling down in the whitened fields below. What they were, she couldn’t begin to guess.

  “Sorcery!” her father hissed in Shallan’s ear. It was evident the duke had slept heavier than she, being exhausted from their ride the day before. He looked confused, on the verge of panic.

  “This is Caswallon’s work, daughter.” Shallan’s wild gaze locked with the duke. Lord Tomais did not look well this morning. The bitter cold. The long hard rides through rain and sleet. The loss and the failure to hold his city…his land. All were weighing him down.

  And now these things were hunting them.

  “There’re getting closer!” Shallan clutched a thin wet branch of willow forming part of the withy thicket that had until recently hidden them so well. Terror gnawed at her breast, she felt sick and angry. Betrayed. They had come so far, done so well, she and her father. Almost they were at the border. Free Wynais, the silver city, home of her cousin Queen Ariane, was only two score miles south. But it was hopeless. These things (whatever they were) had caught their scent. They were closing fast.

  “Father, we must flee!” Shallan tugged at his sleeve but the duke seemed fey. Trapped in the knowing certainty of awful death.

  “No!” Shallan screamed. She slid the dagger from her father’s belt as he stared hooked and broken at the horrors approaching the copse. Shallan bit her lower lip and readied the blade.

  They’ll not have us! First you, Father, then me…

  Shallan raised the knife towards the duke’s throat. He didn’t even notice. He was far away. Lost. Shallan’s hand froze as another howl erupted just a few yards below where they stood. Still clutching the thin blade she turned her head toward the baying din below. Her grey-blue eyes were determined, angry and half crazed with fear.

  Shallan could see them clearly now. Tall thin shapes—hooded, the features barely discernible. Then Shallan glimpsed the twisted dog face of one approaching creature and shuddered. Mostly they walked on hind legs, though some dropped and sniffed, clawing at the snow-crusted ground.

  They were only yards away and the howling was everywhere. The wood was surrounded. Shallan knew there would be no escape. She gripped the knife harder, feeling its hilt greasy beneath her sweating grasp. The cold steel bit lightly into her father’s neck. Tomais didn’t flinch but a bead of blood showed bright on his collar. Shallan shivered when she saw it. The howls were rising in pitch. In seconds they would be torn apart. No time to hesitate. Must finish this…

  Sorry, Father…

  ‘NO!” a voice came booming through the trees. Shallan froze. A crash and thud. A bright light dazzling her vision. What’s this? The creatures stopped momentarily in confusion as something heavy hit the turf to settle shiny at Shallan’s feet.

  A horn.

  The knife fell from Shallan’s fingers. The duke blinked, aside from that he looked like a dead man. The dog-things reared up slavering, hungry keen, no longer distracted. But Shallan no longer hesitated, she reached down, seized the horn with both pale hands. A thing of beauty, curving and tapering and two feet in length. A great tusk, mottled cream and grey, with wide hoops of rune-engraved silver. Had she time to look, Shallan would marvel at the ornate engravings on the silver bands. Though it was heavy in her arms, she had no trouble lifting it. Something was giving her strength and, raising the horn to her trembling lips, Shallan blew a long clear note.

  The dog creatures froze at the edge of the copse—they seemed uncertain, puzzled by the horn’s clear note. They started circling, barking and pawing at the earth below. They looked agitated, confused.

  Shallan tore her gaze away from them. She blew again—harder. The note resonated through the valley. It gave her confidence. Beside her the duke stirred as one waking from a coma. Shallan’s lips parted ever so slightly. She smiled. This time the creatures howled as though in pain. They snarled and barked in what appeared to be panic, tearing and snapping at each other.

  Shallan raised the horn a third time. Again she blew even harder than before. Again the note silenced the valley. It silenced the howlers too. They lay motionless as though struck by invisible lightning, their snouts oozing slime, and dark steam venting from their lifeless hides.

  Shallan felt the alien strength rush out of her as she gazed at the stinking corpses all around. She felt weak, exhausted and shocked. Her knees wobbled and she dropped the horn. But as the giddiness assaulted her, Shallan wrapped her right hand around a willow branch and held tight, taking deep breaths. The duke’s eyes found the dead creatures. He blacked out again.

  “What are those… things?” Shallan whispered to herself between breaths.

  “Groil.”

  “What?” Had she more strength Shallan would have jumped in alarm. The voice was deep and came from right behind her. Who? But Shallan already guessed the answer to that. Slowly she let go of the branch. She turned, saw him standing there in silence with massive arms folded, scarce two yards ahead.

  The Horned Man.

  ***

  “You saved us.” Shallan barely managed the words.

  He shook his head—this stranger/friend from her dreams—his heavy face oaken dark, and the horns jutting out from behind his pointed ears. Much smaller horns than the one at Shallan’s feet, but impressive nonetheless. He loomed close l
ike a great gnarly tree, hugely muscled with barrel chest and corded thigh. He was naked save for the dark woollen trousers that clung to his thighs.

  At last he spoke. His voice, though quiet, resonated through the trees.

  “You saved yourself. I merely supplied the opportunity.” The Horned Man watched her with those huge mysterious eyes. “You have the strength, Shallan. Few mortals can blow that horn.” He smiled then. A sad, ageless expression.

  A slight sound to her left. Shallan was relieved to see her father hunched and pale, staring as one stricken at the carcases below. Shallan felt a stab of pain as she watched him there. Father, you are not well. She let her gaze fall to the horn at her feet.

  “This horn is yours?”

  “No longer.”

  “Those…things?” Shallan looked up, saw that the Horned Man watched her still.

  He spoke again, his voice sounding like wood smoke under winter rain.

  “Servants of the other side.” He turned away, showed her his back. Shallan marvelled at the width of his naked shoulders, taking in the huge corded muscles moving along his arms, enhanced by the fine tracery of blue tattooing darkening his oak-hard skin.

  Shallan didn’t know what to say. Beside her the duke shivered and clutched his cloak, if he saw the Horned Man he showed no sign of it. “Caswallon?” Shallan asked after stealing a glance at her father. He looked physically sick and about to pass out again. She reached out, supported his frail body.

  “Perhaps now,” the Horned Man responded, his dreamy gaze still on the valley below. Now and then a howl pierced the murk hinting there were more out there. All else was silent and still. “But once they served another people. A race long departed…like my own.”

  “We owe you our lives,” Shallan said as her father blinked at the rain seeing nothing in the gap through the trees. “That horn…”

  “It’s a gift. There will be others.”

  “Why?” Shallan reached down and lifted the horn. Strange how it felt lighter this time. “A wonderful gift—wait!” The horned figure was departing—striding off at speed into the mist which had thickened to shroud the valley below.

  “How can I repay you?” Shallan called after him.

  Silence.

  “Who are you? Why do you help us?” Shallan’s voice was muffled by the rain. But he heard her. Looking down, Shallan thought she glimpsed him far below. He had turned his gaze upon her again.

  “You’re kin…” the Horned Man replied before turning back and vanishing in the gloom.

  Shallan turned, hearing a soft thud. The duke had found his feet but was coughing up blood. He looked awful. “Those things are dead—thank the gods! But what killed them when they were almost upon us?”

  “This did.” Shallan held up the large horn and the duke’s face blanched in horror.

  “Throw it away!”

  “What?”

  “It’s a thing of evil.”

  “It saved us! Did you not hear me blowing it, Father?”

  “I heard a murmuring like night wind through winter trees.”

  Shallan rolled her eyes. She wondered if her father would ever return to the man he had been instead of this mess that slumped before her. She tried again. “Did you not see him father—the Horned Man? He saved us! His strength enabled me to blow this horn.”

  “I saw no one,” muttered the duke, a crease of doubt lining his brow. “I saw nothing.”

  “But he was here, Father. I—”

  A snort announced the horses’ return. Shallan smiled as the relief flushed her cheeks. Both beasts appeared fine, though their eyes were wild and their manner still skittish. Shallan settled them and took the meagre provisions from her mare’s saddlebag. The duke needed food. He stood swaying and gaping at the corpses already rotting below. Shallan lashed the horn to her saddle, determined to solve its mystery in time. Pursuing the discussion further today was fruitless. Time to move and get Father moving. Once they had eaten it was one last push. With luck they would skirt Kelthara without being spotted, cross the border and enter Kelwyn where her cousin ruled.

  Ariane—that was another matter.

  ***

  The fear had nearly broken him—back then. Almost he had lost his reason in that cold damp place. Naked and filthy and alone. Certainly he’d lost all sense of time. How long had he been incarcerated? Months? Weeks? Somehow Prince Tarin had clung to that tiny seed of hope. The stranger—Zallerak. He would come as promised and set him free.

  But there were times when even that tiny hope was obliterated, down there in the numbing dark where the shadows mocked him. Being alone was bad enough. But when he came. Those were the times when the prince nearly broke.

  Rael never touched him, but would appear in front of his face with angry torchlight and a lone huge guard. Those green eyes would feast on Tarin’s terror. And Rael would whisper hints of what lay ahead for him. His face inches from the cage, the Assassin would smile and speak almost conspiringly as though he and his captive shared some huge joke. And Tarin would weep as his tormentor so eloquently described the many little surprises he had in store for the prince.

  Then he would vanish without a sound, and the grim silent guard behind him, leaving Tarin alone with his terror. These were the worst times. But then the Assassin stopped coming.

  Time wore on. The guard would arrive and shove cold gruel and stale water through the cage. They didn’t feed him often—just enough to keep him alive. Tarin’s young body was a mass of sores from his own filth. His joints ached from the damp and he was always so cold. The cage, though big enough for him to stand, allowed no room for lying down. What sleep the prisoner got was shallow and tortured by the promise of worse to come.

  Then Zallerak came.

  At first Tarin thought this another cruel trick of his captors. Somehow Rael had got wind of his ruse and had come down here to mock him. Tarin had cried out in terror as the tall figure of the bard loomed in front of him, pawing at him and muttering in annoyance.

  Then the cage door clanged and swung open amid creaks. Deceptively strong arms hauled the stinking prince out to lie, weeping and shivering on the filthy stone floor of the dungeon.

  “Wake up!” Tarin blinked through tears and then almost grinned like an idiot when it finally dawned on him that he was free.

  “You…came…”

  “Of course I bloody-well came—I said I would, didn’t I?” The bard had lost none of his rasping wit. “There is need of haste here. Quick now don these garments, boy.”

  Zallerak produced a sack from somewhere and turned it upside down, spilling its various contents into a heap on the floor. Tarin gawped at trousers, a broad leather belt, boots, a green tunic and a heavy woollen cloak with a large copper brooch. Last of all a heavy hunting knife clattered on the cobbled stone beside the pile of clothing.

  Tarin needed no further prompting. He rushed to clothe himself but struggled to stand in his weakened state. Zallerak assisted him until the prince was fully clad.

  “You stink,” Zallerak grumbled. “You’ll have to wash in a stream once free of these mountains, I’ve only a little water and that’s for drinking—sparingly, boy.”

  Tarin nodded happily. He was free and besides, no longer smelled his own stench.

  “Hungry—or is that a stupid question?”

  “Yes…”

  “Here, I filched this from the kitchens.” Zallerak, as if by magic, produced a large chop and shoved it into the prince’s right fist. Tarin just stared at it in wonderment.

  “Eat, idiot.”

  “Thank you.” Tarin’s weakened sense of smell caught a whiff of the pork and his stomach grumbled. Without further ado he tore into the meat, his aching teeth bleeding as he bit upon it.

  “Slowly. Let your stomach adjust, boy,” Zallerak urged him. “Small chunks—twenty chews a bite.” The bard watched in the gloom while Tarin slowly consumed his chop. Zallerak grunted approval. Already the prince looked stronger. He had mettle despite his sh
ortcomings. The bard had chosen well. The prince was strong in body, and his mind not as weak as most thought. He would do.

  “You had best be on your way,” Zallerak told him.

  Tarin blinked through the murk. His eyes, though well accustomed to the dark, could see no way out of this dreadful place. He blinked again.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Where do I go? I don’t know the way.”

  “Do I have to do everything for you, boyo? Want me to aim your prick when you take a piss?”

  Tarin said nothing.

  “At the far end of this oubliette is another passage, unused for many years. This eventually leads out to a secret postern at the northern edge of the mountains. It will take several hours so be sparing with that water. You will be hungry and cold but at least you will be free.”

  Tarin nodded and wished he had another chop to chew on.

  “Once you’re out in the open make haste for the coast—it’s not that far. Drink and wash in mountain streams, there’s still berries about so you needn’t starve. The brooks will lead you to a river, shallow and swift. Wade it and follow the far bank down to a village on the coast. Got that?”

  Tarin nodded.

  “Good. Once there wait until dark and steal a boat. There’ll be several scattered along the shore. You want a simple craft, small and buoyant with a single sail.”

  I don’t know anything about boats,” complained the prince.

  “Time to learn then.” Zallerak grinned at him. “Oh, I almost forgot, you will need this to guide your craft.”

  “What is that?” The bard had thrust a heavy circular object into Tarin’s palm. The prince blinked down at it.

  “A lodestone—so you don’t get lost on the waves, boy.”

  “How do I use it?

  “Learn.”

  That had been almost three weeks ago. Tarin had left Zallerak alone in the dungeon. He hadn’t asked what the bard had planned. He didn’t care, just wanted to win free of this terrible island.