The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  “Was it a good night?” Sveyn looked awful this morning. “Did I miss something, it’s all a bit blurred?”

  “We’re skint,” Taic complained. “That dark-eyed bitch slit my purse open and legged it.”

  “Lucky she didn’t slit your throat open.” Sveyn lurched across the tavern sourcing food and ale. He found a half-eaten ham bone someone had tossed on the straw-covered floor by the front door. This Sveyn grabbed and commenced chewing.

  “There is that,” Taic nodded. “What happened to the other lads?”

  “Still here.” Two dark shapes stirred in a corner of the taproom. Taic and Sveyn had only met these two last night. Good lads though, and good scrappers. Wogun was as tall as Taic’s uncle Barin, though wiry instead of broad. He was from the distant south, his skin black as ebony.

  The other fellow, Normacaralox (Taic and Sveyn decided on calling him Norman) was dark-skinned too, but his was more of a dull ochre hue. Norman came from some obscure place east of Permio that Taic had never heard of. Both these two were older than Taic and Sveyn.

  Norman wore a grizzled beard and sported a wide hooped golden earing in his left lobe. He carried a long curved blade. Wogun had seven earrings, all varied in colour and hue. He also kept an interesting array of knives strapped to his waist belt. Wogun smiled a lot. Norman didn’t (which was just as well since he was missing any top front teeth). Both were seasoned sailors who had just arrived in Port Sarfe and, between contracts, had been enjoying the sights of the town when they had happened upon Taic and Sveyn. After that it had all gone horribly wrong.

  The sudden rush of feet outside announced it was time they got moving. Taic recovered his axe from where he’d left it embedded in a post last night. Sveyn’s five daggers were strewn across the bar, he vaguely remembered tossing them at people but had been too drunk to hit a barn door. Their new friends Norman and Wogun grabbed their own assorted weapons just as the door swung open and Port Sarfe’s militia came crashing in.

  “Morning, lads!” Taic grinned at the leader. “I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding!”

  Later, whilst his head stung from the vegetables hurled at him, Taic had time to reflect. The four of them graced the stocks at the southern end of the harbour, much to the locals’ amusement. Taic even recognised the trollop that had filched his coin. She’d flashed him a gorgeous grin before sending an overripe tomato his way.

  Bit rich that—in Taic’s opinion. He closed his eyes. This was proving a troublesome morning.

  But the afternoon was worse.

  “Might have guessed I’d find you tossers here.” A gruff voice close by. Taic’s eyes blinked open. He recognised Cogga, Sveyn’s hardarse uncle, scowling down on them.

  That’s not good.

  “Uncle!” Sveyn grinned through the array of rotting squash stuck to his features. “I didn’t know you were in town! Let me introduce me new mates, Norman and Wogun.” These two grunted and bobbed their heads as best they could given their current confinement. Wogun waggled his massive hands and grinned. “You know young Taic, of course,” Sveyn added.

  “I know what a useless arse he is.” Cogga glared at his nephew who for his part looked a bit crestfallen. “As are you, Sveyn. Well, holiday’s over, boyos. Boss is short of crew, so I made a deal with my new friend here.” The militia captain loomed into view and scowled down at Sveyn and Taic. “I parted with decent coin for you bloody pair,” Cogga told them. “So it’s back to ship we go and grafting.”

  “Work?” Sveyn looked a bit worried.

  “Yes, work. It won’t kill you.” Cogga grinned at the militia captain who for his part didn’t get the joke. “Get your shit together and get cracking,” Cogga said, “we’ve stores to load before himself gets back.”

  “Himself?” Taic had a sudden sinking feeling in his belly.

  “Your uncle Barin. Who else?”

  That’s not good.

  ***

  The Crooked Knife was pleasantly cool after the heat outside. One of the more respectable establishments in Port Sarfe harbour. It actually had glass in most the windows.

  Barin stooped to wipe his face on a tablecloth. He could never adjust to the heat down here. Up north winter was approaching fast. Valkador would already be coated in snow. He pictured Marigold with her long plaits and sharp tongue and then thought about his pretty big-eyed daughters. The youngest, Daisy, had given her a deal of trouble lately, (this from his last letter). She’d taken to hanging out with that wastrel nephew of theirs, Taic. When Barin next happened upon master Taic there would be words spoken.

  Corin liked The Crooked Knife. He had frequented it often enough during his days with Silon. It was a large tavern with more than its share of drunks and wastrels, though these were generally better behaved than those idiots frequenting the dens at the southern end of town. ‘The Knife’ was empty this morning which well suited their purpose. Ariane hovered uneasy whilst Barin bid they claim stools near a window facing a side alley, a long table within easy reach.

  Ariane remained standing but the men stretched their legs out. Barin yawned whilst Corin sought out the patron. He found him in the cellar.

  Corin liked Rado. The innkeeper was a man of tolerant nature and sound wit. He greeted Corin cheerfully, recognising him in an instant.

  “I thought that you had returned to Kelthaine, or was it Morwella?” Rado asked as Corin followed him back to the bar. He requested ale for his companions and chilled tea for the queen. She had sensibly declined the offer of wine at this early hour.

  “One of us will need a clear head to speak with Silon,” she had told them. At her left, Cale beamed his gap-toothed smile as he clutched his bubbling brew. He was one of the men now—part of an elite squad.

  “Fol. You wouldn’t know it,” Corin was replying to the innkeeper’s inquiry. “Rocky windswept country in the far north west.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “No one has.”

  Corin recalled the last time he’d been in this tavern and tried to remember that girl’s name. She had had a certain appetite and he’d learned a few new moves.

  “I’m back here on business, Rado.”

  “So I see,” replied Rado, “and in refined company too.”

  The innkeeper’s shrewd brown eyes lingered a moment over Ariane’s trim figure.

  “Who’s the lovely lady?” he asked without the narrowest hint of discretion.

  “Some wealthy merchant’s daughter from Kelwyn,” Corin answered—glibly for once. “She requested we get out of the heat. So here we are.”

  “Silon knows her. I belief she is a distant relative of the old goat.” He took a long pull at his tankard and sighed. “Still the finest brew in the south, Rado.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “Is himself at home these days?” Corin enquired casually. Silon was known and respected throughout southern Raleen—mainly because almost everyone owed him money, including Rado.

  “Aye he is, though he only arrived back two days hence. Been lurking down in Cappel Cormac apparently.” Rado was shaking his head. “Only the gods know why. In a right shambolic state he was. Unusual for him who’s so fastidious about his person. I caught his eye down at the quay. Looked a touch stressed, so he did.”

  “Cappel Cormac?” Corin wondered what would possess the merchant to risk his neck in that sleazy den of treachery and deceit.

  “So I hear. It’s good to see you again, Corin.” Rado placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let me know when you want to settle up, there’s no rush.”

  Rado disappeared from sight to uncork another barrel for his guests. Whilst in the cellar, he mused over the dark-haired beauty at the table. One thing was certain; she was no merchant’s daughter.

  Rado grinned. He’d always liked Corin but the Longswordsman was a crap liar. He reckoned once again Corin had gotten into something deep. Rado spiked the barrel and clambered back up the ladder. Once back in the taproom he pretended not to listen.

/>   “Silon’s at home, though only just,” announced Corin, returning to the table with a half grin. They still had the inn to themselves, most decent folk being hard at work, whilst the tavern loiterers were still snoring in their cots.

  Ariane sipped her tea thoughtfully as men and boy guzzled their ale and ordered more. Cale’s head was spinning a little and his eyes had taken on a glazed look. Even Galed was cheerfully bolstered with imported hops.

  Ariane frowned at Galed. The squire had started to slur his words. Rado furnished them with a huge plate of seafood. This they consumed with vigour before sitting back in comfort. Outside the streets and harbour were a hive of activity.

  “We had best be on our way in a minute,” said Barin with a sigh after wiping his mouth. “It’s only a score of miles to Silon’s house. I told Fassof to expect us back tomorrow night with news of our next destination.”

  “What about Zallerak?” enquired Bleyne, who had recently joined them at table. He was dressed in his accustomed archer’s gear and had purchased a new knife to go with his collection. Bleyne watched the open doorway as if he expected the bard to arrive any moment.

  “A pox on him,” responded Corin. “Let him find his own way to the merchant’s residence.”

  Ariane glanced at Corin. She almost said something but instead looked away again, her sharp features flushed and those dark eyes troubled. Corin’s lean, scarred face was tanned like leather. His dark hair was tangled and torn and he badly needed a shave, she decided. And those leathers must be soldered to his skin in this heat. She wrinkled her nose—questioned why she found him so attractive.

  A noise turned their heads as the door creaked open. Zallerak stood at the entrance, his tall silhouette blocking the daylight. The bard had his sapphire cloak draped across his broad shoulders despite the heat, and his fine hair was tied back with a blue silk ribbon, which glistened in the morning sun.

  “Is there a problem?” Barin asked the bard.

  “Nothing really.” Zallerak swept the Northman an ironic grin. “Just wondered if it’s wise to idle away the hours in drink whilst your crew are under attack?”

  Chapter 6

  An Acquaintance Renewed

  Barin leapt to his feet knocking the table, rocking it wildly and spilling ale and scraps to the rush-strewn floor. “Who?”

  “The Assassin of Crenna of course.” Zallerak rolled his eyes. “Who else were you expecting?” His long fingers tapped the door frame. “May I suggest a certain fluidity; his oiks approach this tavern as I speak. You had better drink up, my friends!”

  Barin was already at the door, Wyrmfang gripped in his dinner plate hands. The Northman thrust past Zallerak followed by Corin, cursing under his breath with Clouter gripped sweaty in his palms.

  Bleyne, watching their hasty departure, casually leant back and strung his bow, as if he had been expecting trouble all along. Galed and Cale were rendered sober in an instant. They both looked anxiously at the door. Cale’s mouth was open. Ariane gave the boy a shove.

  “Wake up! And you, Galed. Get a bloody grip!” Ariane cursed her choice of letting them come here. If only she’d listened to her instincts.

  At her words Galed and the boy vacated the tavern, blinking stupidly at the glare as they stumbled out into the street. Behind them Rado scratched his head and sighed at the mess left by his hastily departed guests. It was alright—he’d send Silon the bill.

  “Can’t you do something, Zallerak?” Galed yelled up at the bard who stood hovering outside the inn’s door.

  “Have I not done enough? I’ve not been myself since leaving Crenna. Such exertions have their price. This time it is down to you—serves you right, loitering and lurking in grubby taverns with work still to be done. I suggest you pull yourselves together, people. I will see you in good time.”

  Without further comment Zallerak swept his blue cloak behind him and stormed aloof up the narrow side alley, quickly disappearing from sight.

  “Where is he going?” Cale almost shrieked.

  “I told you that bastard cannot be trusted,” growled, Corin fingering Clouter and focussing on the departing warlock. “And here they come!” Corin swung the longsword in an arc and stepped resolute out into the alley.

  Round two.

  The sound of many feet could be heard approaching swiftly from the other side of the inn. Then a slim figure emerged in the entrance of the alley, his presence announcing that way was blocked. The Assassin smiled at them beneath the sun.

  “Greeting, little Queeny, I believe we have unfinished matters to attend to.”

  “Run, Ariane!” Corin shoved her behind him.

  “Bleyne!” Corin yelled in the archer’s ear. “Take Galed and the boy. Make for the city walls; mention Silon’s name and the guards there will help you. Fly!”

  “But, Corin, what about..?” Ariane’s face was close to tears. “I don’t want to lose you too,” she struggled to get the words out.

  “You won’t. I promise. Just go!”

  Ariane hesitated for a moment longer, offered one last pleading glance at Corin, then she turned, chased Cale and Galed up the winding alley. Corin and Barin had no time to watch them leave. The Assassin’s men were already upon them.

  As she fled, Ariane stole a glance back down the street, saw Barin and Corin ringed by steel.

  Elanion, please watch over those two fools—they are all I have left.

  Ariane turned away, and weeping furious tears sped up the street towards the distant barbican from where she would alert the city watch.

  Below the sound of ringing steel echoed around the harbour. Bleyne having crested a rise, turned and ushered them on. Ariane’s strong short legs had already drawn level with Galed’s.

  Bleyne let them pass him. The archer was torn by indecision, his dark face taut and troubled. He’d an arrow resting on his bow and was wrestling with his choice: save the queen or assist Corin and Barin. At last he reached a practical decision. A clean shot would impossible from anywhere hereabouts, besides Ariane was the Goddess’s chosen—his place was with her. Bleyne turned around, this time his friends would have to fend for themselves.

  He shouldered the bow, and catching up with the queen, squire and boy, fled east and up through the dusty tangled streets of Port Sarfe.

  ***

  Clouter met Rael Hakkenon’s slim rapier in a blaze of sparks. Beside him Barin roared his battle cry and launched his bulk at the Assassin’s men, gathered close behind their lord. There were at least a dozen of them. They were canny, this bunch, staying clear of Barin’s axe. They kept their distance, goading and gesturing, trying to lure him back down to the quayside. One of them yelled at him.

  “Hey, Haystack—we’ve already enjoyed gutting your crew and pillaging your tub! The rest of the boys are finishing off your ale.” He grinned. “You’re buggered, Northman.” This one took a step towards Barin who readied his axe. The pirate stopped, eyeing Wyrmfang warily.

  “What’s this—Big Bad Barin’s lost his nerve? Balls shrunk, have they? Don’t want to fight anymore? Shame, that.” He turned and rejoined his laughing companions.

  And of course Barin took the bait.

  ***

  Taic dived low as the curved blade sliced air above his head. To his right, Sveyn butted a pirate and followed up with a stiff knee in the man’s groin. Long legs Wogun was bludgeoning about with a huge club he’d produced from somewhere, and, cool as you like, Norman No Teeth was lobbing knives in all directions. It all made for a busy afternoon.

  They fought alongside Cogga and Fassof the mate and the rest of the crew. The Crenise attackers had come from nowhere. One minute Taic and Norman had been sharing a pipe smoke whilst reflecting on their busy day, then the dirty knaves had leapt on board bold as you like. And now things had got out of hand.

  Taic rolled to his left as a Crenise spear stabbed the timbers he’d just vacated. Taic launched his left foot skyward, taking his foe in the balls. The pirate stumbled on top of him, but not b
efore producing a knife, and slicing hard for Taic’s neck. That stab never came. Instead the pirate flopped as Wogun’s club impacted his skull with a sickly squelch.

  “Thank you!” grinned Taic and rolled free again. But it was no good. They were surrounded and more Crenise had just arrived from the harbour. Taic grinned at Cogga, who’d just dispatched a pirate with his jewelled knife.

  “Glad we could be of assistance!” Taic heard shouts, someone roaring. That voice sounded familiar. Uncle Barin.

  That’s not good.

  ***

  The Assassin’s men were taken aback by Barin’s sudden fury. They turned, commenced legging it back down to the harbour. Rael didn’t notice them leaving, he was occupied elsewhere.

  Barin tore down the alley, eyes blazing and Wyrmfang doing cartwheels. Emerging townsfolk fled into alcoves, women cried out, children hollered and pointed, and men stood gaping, all stunned by the fury of this axe-swinging giant.

  The Crenise were in full sprint, they reached the harbour but not before Barin swatted four from behind with Wyrmfang—the gobby one first to go, his ugly head sailing past a shop window before plopping in the water.

  Barin stopped as he reached the water’s edge. The surviving pirates backed off again. No goading this time.

  Glancing up with bloodshot eyes, Barin could see a score of pirates milling around his ship, Fassof and his crew hard pressed repulsing them.

  The rage filled him again.

  Kicking and cursing, hacking and sweeping, Wyrmfang whirling in bloody arcs; scattering foe, trader and wide-mouthed bystander like windblown leaves, Barin foamed at the mouth as he strode unchallenged to The Starlight Wanderer. Horrified merchants (who only recently had been chatting and dealing in a leisurely manner) panicked and fell over each other, eager to be anywhere as long as it wasn’t in the Northman’s path. The quayside emptied rapidly, folk took shelter in The Crooked Knife and behind the walls of any other sanctuary they could find. From these safe points they clustered gaping and mouthing expletives from the dust-streaked windows. Rado watched from the door of his tavern. The inn was full but no one was buying.