by J. W. Webb
Corin trudged over to the edge of a steep bank, from where he could descry any movement in the rocky land around. Nothing stirred. The night was silent and starry. Corin stretched out with his back to a shrub. He watched the clear moon, trying to relax. But the harrowing dream still hung over him. Corin thought of Shallan and their brief time together. That seemed like a dream too, although one he would happily revisit. But thinking about Shallan made him think about Ariane, and things got complicated in his head again.
I love two woman. Neither are here. Instead I’ve an idiot nobleman, a taciturn archer, a warlock and a weed-smoking tribesman as bedmates. Corin switched his thought to far off Finnehalle. He thought of Karin his mother, (although she wasn’t really his mother and he didn’t know who his mother was). Corin remembered the old tune she’d sang on those clear bright mornings as she watched her husband take to sea.
Finnehalle by the sea, a fairer place could never be,
Where white caps dance and sea birds call,
Where lanterns guide them home to shore.
Where forest tumbles over cliff, as ocean greets the sky,
Where fisher’s craft dance blue on blue as nearby porpoise sigh,
Where stars alone will witness my love’s return from sea.
Finnehalle my home, work and rest.
Come back to me. Come back to me!
Corin pictured the lanterns swaying down by the water’s edge; he felt Shallan’s slender hand in his own, as together they entered The Last Ship and Burmon greeted them with a broad smile and two full tankards. Shallan seemed the sort of girl that could drain a full tankard.
What’s that?
Corin jolted out of his reverie. Something stirred out there. A black speck in the distance growing bigger, filling the night sky. Somewhere a great distance away there came the sound of hoofbeats and horns.
The Wild Hunt!
Corin gaped at that speck in the sky, his idle imaginings forgotten in an instant. He shivered as the shadow crossed the moon. That shadow became a host approaching at speed. Hounds bayed and horns bellowed, filling the sky with clamour.
Then he spied the Huntsman pale and ghostly on his dreadful steed. In their master’s wake loped huge pale hounds, their eerie bays echoing horribly through the night sky. Behind the rider hurried the host. Dead souls everyone—the Huntsman’s children.
Down and down they descended through the starry dark, spiralling and swooping ever nearer, until Corin could discern the faces of the doomed and hear their desperate cries. And it seemed to Corin then that they were calling out to him.
“Come to us, warrior!” They beckoned and he gasped to see Roman’s face among them beseeching him with the rest.
“Roman!” Corin cried, waking his friends with his hoarse shout, but Roman’s face had vanished in the multitude that shuffled forlorn behind the giant hounds of Oroonin. The Huntsman raised a great horn to his head and blew; hoo hoo! And the host passed high overhead. Slowly, as they dwindled, peace returned to the sleeping land. The sky paled in the east. At last morning had come.
Chapter 14
Nomads
“What in the nine worlds is happening?” gasped a white-faced Tamersane as he cowered from the ghostly apparitions departing through the blackness above. Bleyne fingered his bow nervously while Yashan held his head in his hands. The tribesmen were a superstitious lot and Yashan was greatly alarmed.
“The Wild Hunt rides out!” Zallerak stood gaping up at the sky, his eyes hard and jaw set resolute. “The time is upon us, Caswallon’s war has begun!”
The stunned companions watched the astral host trail north like a dust comet and then vanish from view. Nobody spoke for several minutes. At last, Corin dragged his stricken gaze from the sky and glanced wild-eyed around at their camp. The horses needed attention so he ventured over as no one else seemed in a hurry.
The poor beasts (excluding Thunder who just looked miserable) had been clearly terrified by the apparitions, but fortunately they had been well tied, and after a few placating words, followed by oats and some water, they settled down again. Corin looked at Thunderhoof and the horse snorted snot.
“I know—it was a rough night for me too,” Corin grumbled.
“We had best get moving,” muttered Yashan after they had moodily nibbled a brief snack of dried bread and dates, courtesy of Silon’s fast diminishing kitchen fare. The five companions weren’t carrying many supplies as they were expecting to spend the next night with Yashan’s friend inside the walls of Agmandeur. Not that Corin held high hopes in that direction, but time would tell.
“How far is the city, Yashan?” enquired Tamersane, trying to keep his hand steady while scraping his sharp hunting knife across his chin, and wincing when he nicked the flesh. It wasn’t the ideal time to shave but Tamersane was most particular about his appearance. He wasn’t convinced the women here were as ugly as Corin had hinted. You never know when you need to make an impression. Gods forbid him ending up with a face like Corin’s—all grizzly-frowns, muscle, scar and sprouting hairs.
“We should make the gates by nightfall, if we leave now,” answered their guide. Yashan still appeared shaken. His tough desert face was filled with doubt after seeing the sky rider (that was what the Permians called the Huntsman). “If we can make it,” he uttered under his breath.
“We’ll get there,” said Corin. “It’s not the first time I’ve encountered yonder spook. Whatever game that Huntsman is playing, I think he needs us alive to participate in it.”
“Oh, well that’s good I suppose,” grinned Tamersane. “Encouraging. We can take heart from that, friend Corin.” Tamersane might be smiling but no one else looked happy. Zallerak was away staring at the morning. Bleyne, as usual staring blankly into space, and Yashan staring hard and quizzical at Corin.
“What’s up with you?” Corin caught his eye. Yashan did not reply at first. He continued staring at Corin strangely for a moment longer, his dark eyes respectful and troubled beneath the scarlet burnoose.
“Marakan?” he asked eventually.
“What?” Corin was unnerved by the tribesman’s quizzical stare.
“It means chosen by the gods,” responded Yashan before mounting his steed in a single, swift flowing movement. “You, Corin an Fol, are Marakan. You might save us yet.”
“Don’t you start,” Corin growled, before vaulting onto Thunderhoof’s back and striking the horse’s flank with a hard slap. Thunderhoof snorted in reproach then stoically trotted off to rejoin the road.
They made good progress during that morning, the road they travelled being well constructed, once a busy trade route, and still often used, despite the many conflicts fought amongst these sandy hills. Their spirits rose, it was not too hot and they had the road to themselves. Miles faded behind them as the dusty day wore on. Most were content to ride and think. Tamersane, however, was curious.
“What manner of city is Agmandeur?” the Kelwynian enquired of Yashan as the tribesman led them southeast at a steady trot. “Is it like the vast decadent fleshpots of Syrannos and Cappel Cormac?”
“No indeed.” Yashan’s sharp gaze swept the brown hills ahead. Their guide still seemed edgy as if he expected trouble at any moment. Nonetheless he answered the fair-haired rider readily enough. “Agmandeur is a frontier city,” Yashan told him. “It stands on the northern edge of the desert and has a fine view across the dunes. It is a bartering centre for the many tribes roaming the vast expanses beyond. Though most are bitter enemies, they cannot carry their feuds beneath the city walls. Violence of any kind is forbidden in Agmandeur.”
“The women…?”
“Devout. Noble. Fiery.”
“Brothels?”
“There aren’t any.”
“Oh…” Tamersane crinkled his nose in disappointment and no longer pursued the subject. Yashan managed a wry grin and Corin laughed at the Kelwynian’s mournful expression.
“You’d only catch something nasty,” Corin said.
; “What of the sultan’s soldiers?” enquired Bleyne, surprising everyone with his sudden interest. The archer seemed oddly cheerfully and at ease in this dusty hot environment, so unlike his forest home.
“They will not trouble us inside the city,” answered Yashan with a curt shrug. “Once we are beyond its walls in the deep desert? A different matter.”
“The sultan doesn’t approve of Agmandeur,” Zallerak cut in. He was riding a few yards ahead and had been listening in. He looked relaxed in his saddle, the cloak flapping behind him like a blue cloud.
“Its citizens pay no taxes to Sedinadola and the warring tribes are forever raiding his sumptuous caravans! It’s an outlaw city really.”
“A man has to earn a living.” Yashan’s hawk like features revealed little. Corin noticed that Zallerak now had his small golden harp hanging from a silver belt at his waist. So he had brought it. For some reason that comforted Corin. The bard continued enthusiastically remonstrating about their certain perils ahead, as though he were looking forward to encountering them.
“Agmandeur is under the sway of Barakani and his seven sons,” Zallerak announced. “The old bandit also calls himself the lord of the desert. Somewhat presumptuously, in my opinion.”
“Sure he’d love to hear your opinion.”
“What’s that, Corin an Fol?”
“Nothing.”
Corin’s war-trained eyes scouted the country as they wound their way around arid hills and ducked through stunted woods. Towards afternoon the hills rose up, becoming much steeper before splitting in two swallowing the road ahead.
Beneath these jagged crags lay a sharp ravine. Into this cleft the road led them in a series of dusty twists, like a sleeping snake coiled under the sun. Rocks and bushes shouldered the pass, affording a wealth of concealed protection to any would-be raider.
It was dangerous terrain. Corin could see why wealthy merchants never crossed this region without a score of paid protectors. This was bandit country and an ambush could happen at any time.
Corin kept a wary eye on the rugged outcrops leaning toward them from either side. Yashan said the tribes would let them be, but what other enemies lurked in these lands? Corin thought of Morak and his recurring dream. He shuddered. Zallerak’s party were seeking the prince and the Tekara, but what was seeking them? He pictured a host of dog-lords hefting black spears and snarling unmentionables. Best not to dwell on such things.
Yashan led them on at a steady canter through the twisting rocky sandstone until they cleared the pass, much to everyone’s relief. Once again the landscape levelled out, the slopes falling away to north and south.
Corin slowed to a trot, shielding his eyes with his hand as he studied the country ahead. For miles it appeared dreary and uninspiring, scrubby bushes, stone and sandy soil, though some way off he caught the sparkle of moving water.
“That is the river Narion,” announced Yashan, reining in and pointing southwest, as the others joined him whilst allowing their hot mounts a brief respite and munch at stubby grass. “You can just make out the stone walls of the city beyond the river.”
Corin let his gaze follow the guide’s direction until he espied the sandy walls of a town.
Agmandeur—at last their destination was in view.
They were about to spur their horses forward when the sharp-eyed Bleyne stopped them. The archer had seen movement on the road ahead.
“What is it?” Corin asked, fingering Biter’s hilt. He had learned to trust Bleyne’s eyes.
“Looks like one of those merchant caravans,” replied the archer with a shrug. “It must be several miles long.”
“Are there any soldiers with them?” Corin had no desire to encounter the sultan’s elite guard in their own domain.
“There are warriors there, yes, but they look like hired men,” responded the archer. “Yashan tells us that the hounds of Sedinadola wear crimson cloaks. These fellows appear randomly dressed and scruffy—bit like you, Corin.”
“Thanks.”
Bleyne continued to survey the approaching column. All Corin could descry was a large cloud of dust and a few ambling carts. Once again he marvelled at the archer’s piercing vision.
“Had we best seek cover?” Corin enquired of Yashan, but it was Zallerak who answered him. The bard also had astounding vision: he seemed satisfied that this was indeed a large merchant train heading for the Four Kingdoms, or perhaps the remote lands beyond Ptarni far to the east.
“They will have stopped in Agmandeur,” said Zallerak. “We can glean knowledge of the road ahead.”
“Are you expecting trouble, Sir Zallerak?” Yashan still had a profound distrust of the bard. Like Corin, Yashan believed Zallerak knew more than he gave out. He half suspected trouble would descend on them like a plague of angry wasps once they entered the deep desert. Still, the wizard’s words were wise for once. They might as well see what lay ahead, he told them.
The five riders waited at the small rise just beyond the ravine. The horses fidgeted as did Tamersane, while the winding train of caravans wove their dusty trail towards them. Corin studied the brightly coloured wagons trundling, grinding and bumping behind the sweating horses. Other ungainly beasts carried silken robed merchants and fighting men who eyed the distant horsemen on the ridge with professional calm.
“What are those ugly creatures?” Tamersane enquired of Corin. The young Kelwynian was amazed by the sight confronting him.
“Camels,” answered Corin. “Desert beasts. The Permians often rode them during the wars across the borderlands. They are very tough and have little need for water, carrying it as they do in those fleshy mounds on their backs.”
“They look repulsive.” Tamersane wasn’t impressed.
“They are useful, though somewhat bad tempered.”
“Do you think there are any women hidden in those canvas wagons?” Tamersane’s expression brightened, eager to encounter whatever lay beneath the billowing brightly coloured cloth.
“One or two, I suspect,” answered Corin with a grin,” though they’re most likes worse tempered than the camels.”
“But more comely…”
“Marginally.” Corin was glad Tamersane was here. The handsome Kelwynian was an easy companion and Corin found himself liking him more than the others.
The five watched with palms resting lightly on weapons as the colourful cavalcade approached. Three riders rode ahead on the unwieldy camel creatures, which snorted and spat at their horses as they drew near.
“Hideous brutes,” muttered Tamersane. He couldn’t disguise his disappointment as there didn’t appear to be any women about. Still there was always Agmandeur, he mused, and he might get the odd grope if he awarded them his irresistible charm. Of course he might get his organ sliced off too. But sometimes you have to optimize advantage. Tamersane smiled in welcome as the three riders halted their camels just yards ahead.
The scarlet-robed man on the leading camel was a portly girthed merchant clad in silken cloth, and sweating profusely and miserably beneath the afternoon sun.
About the merchant’s opulent hide hung the stale smell of sweat fused with day old perfume. This one looked oily and artful and Corin remembered why he so disliked merchants.
The other two riders were dour-faced fighters—northerners by their look. Mercenaries and hardened killers armed with swords and crossbows. They sat on their camels uncomfortably as if they would be more at ease on the back of a horse. Corin couldn’t blame them either. The merchant’s men eyed the five strangers with patient distrust.
Their greasy boss was all smiles though. He showed no surprise at encountering strangers on the road and greeted them with an elaborate bow.
“Greetings, friends, you are far from home!” The man had a high-pitched nasal voice and Corin disliked him instantly. Zallerak though, responded with an open smile.
“Indeed we are, master merchant,” proclaimed the bard. “I am Lord Bormion of Kelthara and these are my worthy followers.” Corin’
s stomach growled at that. “I had heard that the markets of Agmandeur were second to none, and thus decided to venture here myself. My own country is rather damp and chilly at this time of year, and I so hate the damp.”
“Indeed the markets there are wonderful.” The merchant’s shrewd eyes watched them like a hawk. “However, we have with us a fine selection of riches bound for distant Shen and the eastern lands—a journey of many months.
“You are welcome to peruse at your leisure, Lord Bormion. We shall be setting up camp soon, as I prefer not to travel under the cover of darkness.” The merchant waved his fat arms to usher the first wagons past as they rattled and banged their way up the dusty hill.
“Let me introduce myself,” he beamed with a smile that reminded Corin of a lizard that had just consumed something twice its own size.
“Sulimo of distant Golt at your humble service!”
“I am honoured,” responded Zallerak. Corin wondered how much longer these pleasantries were going to last. The afternoon was drawing on and there were still many miles to go before they reached that city. “However,” continued the bard. “I have set my mind on entering the walls of yonder desert city before dusk. You will forgive my untimely haste, master Sulimo. A hot bath calls, I feel.”
“Of course, Lord Bormion, I understand completely.” Sulimo looked relieved on hearing this. He waited impatiently for the last wagon to pass in a cloud of dust before he resumed his words.
At Corin’s side, Tamersane was still desperately trying to discover what lay hidden inside the brightly painted train, but it was impossible to see.
“Are the roads west busy, master Sulimo?” Zallerak enquired, watching as the wagons sauntered off before vanishing behind the tumble of hills that hid the ravine.
Corin looked behind him and tensed suddenly. There were at least a dozen fighters, most carrying crossbows, watching them from the nearest hillcrest. Corin was alarmed, he had not seen these men before and assumed they were Sulimo’s scouts.
“Indeed yes,” Sulimo was saying. “The western desert is crawling with the sultan’s soldiers. I believe his mightiness suspects an uprising amongst the tribes. You had best keep your visit to Agmandeur’s famed markets brief, my lord. Or else fare north for the wonders of Cappel Cormac, our second city. It’s not too far from here and has much more too offer than rustic Agmandeur.”