The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

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The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3) Page 20

by J. W. Webb


  “Let him go, big fella, if you’d be so kind.”

  The huge warrior raised an eyebrow but obliged. Corin grinned a ‘thank you’ and lashed out at Hagan’s groin with his left boot. The impact jarred Corin’s leg and Hagan doubled over in pain.

  Behind, the rest of the city guard had arrived led by a puffing, grumbling Hulm. The soldiers swiftly relieved the mercenaries of their crossbows and other weaponry.

  “Tie these bastards up,” ordered Hulm in a voice very different from his earlier tone.

  “Yes, lord,” responded a guard.

  Tamersane and Corin exchanged quizzical glances.

  “Will someone please explain what is going on?” Corin said.

  “Wake up, Corin an Fol and wipe that face clean,” replied Zallerak. “You are looking at the Castellan of Agmandeur!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Corin snapped at Yashan, who was presently urinating over Borgil.

  Yashan shrugged. “You never asked,” he replied. Yashan gazed down at Borgil and grinned. “It’s part of the ritual—I have to cure your fat northern hide before I skin it.” Borgil paled visibly.

  Corin turned to thank the black-skinned warrior who still stood guard over Hagan. “I am in your debt,” Corin told him. The stranger grinned at him in friendly fashion. He folded his massive arms across his chest while his shrewd brown eyes watched Hagan for sudden moves.

  “I enjoyed participating,” he said in a deep voice, and held out a calloused paw. “I am Ulani of the Baha race. I hale from distant Yamondo.”

  Corin gripped Ulani’s hand and smiled up at the warrior. He had never heard of Yamondo. Not that that mattered. Ulani of the Baha was huge, nearly as tall as Barin but much broader; his chest, arms and legs were all corded and contoured with ridges of muscle. Ulani looked like he could take on twelve men in a fight. The barrel chest was naked but the robe across his shoulders looked very expensive.

  Ulani wore a kilt comprised of some spotted animal’s fur, around this was girded a broad golden belt, and from this hung all manner of weaponry. He wore criss-cross sandals strapped around his ankles and calves, with a bone-handled knife thrust into a tiny sheaf stitched to the left one. Corin was impressed. This giant was a walking armoury.

  “And what is to become of our friend here and his men?” Ulani enquired of Hulm.

  “We’ll strip them and leave them hanging outside the city gates for hyena, vulture and fly to feast on.” Hulm’s face showed no ruth. “Had I more time I’d punish them properly for baring their blades inside my city walls!”

  “No.” Against his better judgement Corin found himself pleading with a frowning Hulm to spare Hagan’s life. “He was once an honourable man,” Corin told the ruler, “before he sold his soul to Caswallon and Hakkenon for gold. Let his new master deal with him. Let Hagan and his scumbags contend with the sorcerer’s wrath.”

  “Very well, if you wish it,” shrugged Hulm. “My heart tells me you are unwise in this, Corin an Fol. I don’t doubt you’ll meet this rogue again.”

  “Neither do I.”

  The Castellan turned to his men. “Strip them of their weapons but let them keep their garments. Give them enough water to reach Cappel Cormac—just enough mind, not a drop more.” After that had been done Hagan and his men gathered like restless hounds in a circle pinned by the guards. Hulm rounded on Hagan who was glowering at him with defiant loathing.

  “If you or any of your filth venture near my city again, Hagan Delmorier, I will personally flay the flesh from your bones with a blunt knife and feed it to my hounds!”

  Hagan nodded, stony-faced. He stole an acid glance at Corin, before allowing the guards to escort his men out into the towering dunes, rearing dark and huge beyond the western gates. Before he left Hagan turned to Corin a final time.

  “We’ll meet again soon.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Morning dawned clear and bright. Once again the streets of Agmandeur were teeming with folk as the blazing sun rose up beyond the River Narion. Ragu had arrived as promised with their mounts, robes and copious provisions including large gourds filled with fresh clean water.

  Ulani informed Corin that he was returning to his homeland. Apparently the Baha ruled eastern Yamondo—a country far to the south of their destination.

  Ulani announced he would be happy to accompany them on their journey to the Crystal Mountains. This was a cause of felicitation among the companions, particularly Tamersane who warmed to the big man almost at once.

  They wasted little time getting ready; their mounts at least had received a decent rest. Thunder clomped toward Corin with a resigned look.

  Zallerak thanked the Castellan and his men. Corin patted the boy Ragu on his shoulder and smiled before joining the others.

  Once outside the gates they took stock of the desert ahead. Corin glanced up, squinting at the deepening blue above.

  It was already hot and soon the sun would be unbearable. To think that it was nearly winter! He shook his head and waved farewell to the walls of Agmandeur.

  They had sprung the trap again. Corin thanked Elanion for that much at least. But deep inside a small voice warned far worse dangers waited for him and his friends beyond the towering dunes of the vast Permian Desert.

  Chapter 17

  Syrannos

  Shallan stood watching the clear blue waves break upon the painted bow of The Starlight Wanderer. Above her head the hot sun blazed down relentless, scorching deck timbers and melting the tar coating the stays.

  She gazed up dreamily at the great sails, seeing crewmembers leap lithely across the yards to tend to knots and cleats. Behind her, on the aft deck Shallan could see the bulky frame of captain Barin, the ship’s master, as he held their course steady southwest.

  It was afternoon of the second day since they had departed from Port Sarfe harbour and they were making good progress. A warm breeze ruffled the sails. Shallan smiled, feeling her long chestnut hair lift and float about her face. She felt more alive than she had done for weeks.

  Ahead stretched a low coastline of glittering sand dunes and gently swaying palms. Beyond these the tall domes of a white city could be seen rising up over the wall of sand, shimmering in the afternoon heat.

  Syrannos—the captain had informed her whilst he sipped his liquid breakfast. Shallan decided she liked Barin. The huge Northman was a good-natured soul who helped raise her spirits. His jocular wit had cheered her father too, and she was grateful for that.

  The crew were a rough-looking lot, especially the mate Fassof who had a fiery nature and a foul mouth. He sported a wild crop of red hair and often yelled at the men with the most colourful language Shallan had ever heard—and she’d heard quite a bit lately.

  Barin was short of crew. He’d informed Shallan that he’d got four new recruits in Port Sarfe, but said he didn’t hold out much hope for them, and needed another three at least. But good reliable sailors were hard to come by, and they’d been short-staffed since leaving Crenna. Though Barin’s regulars had had a recent break they missed their northern home and were getting restless. They were all polite to her, not in a stiff dutiful Morwellan way; they were gruff, friendly. It was all she could ask for.

  Shallan felt at ease on Barin’s ship—almost content. Here was a freedom she’d never known before. All her life (and particularly the dark years since her mother’s death) Shallan had been at the whim of her father or else her eldest brother’s wishes.

  Both stern proud men who would not be gainsaid. Father and first son were well meaning but bullish and unyielding in their attentiveness; it was something the free-spirited girl resented to this day. Her other two brothers were wild restless lads who went their own way in life. Shallan had always them envied their freedom, she knew she was as strong as any of them—stronger.

  But now at last Shallan was free to do as she pleased. Duke Tomais had mellowed too; the loss of his city had hit him hard. He’d aged rapidly since the invasion, such was the weight of guilt
he carried. First he’d lost his wife then his country. Tomais considered himself culpable on both counts. The duke relied more and more on Shallan these days, asking her opinion often, and even listening when she gave it. He suffered from depression though and mostly stayed below deck.

  Shallan remained cheerful despite their predicament, she had found something amongst the cool leaves of Silon’s vineyard that she never expected. A new thing—a love born from hope.

  Shallan smiled dreamily as she watched from the dancing prow of the ship. She cast her mind back to that starry, jasmine-scented evening. Again she walked amongst the gardens of Vioyamis with the awkward, shaggy-haired Longswordsman from Fol.

  Shallan had never encountered anyone like Corin before. He was uniquely unsubtle and had so struggled finding the right words. She had liked that. So different to the glib, garrulous courtiers Shallan had known back home. At first she’d felt a playful attraction, had wondered what it was about this uncouth stranger her cousin, Queen Ariane, so admired.

  Shallan had felt so different that night. Adventurous and curious, and a small part of her had wanted to spite her cousin, if truth be known. Ariane was so frosty. But it was more than that. Shallan was known for being aloof but she had another side. A tricky conniving side that she didn’t like. Almost sometimes she felt like another person lived inside her. Alien, cunning and mysterious—Ariane brought out that side of her nature though most oft Shallan kept it well hidden.

  So Shallan had played a game with this Corin, but unwittingly the spider became the fly. She was caught by the steely eyes—the same grey/blue of her own. Shallan felt his inner strength and saw the passion beneath his anger; fusing, boiling like a cauldron about to overflow.

  This was a dangerous man. Corin had excited her like no other. And now she was hooked and could think of little else save when she would see him again.

  In the north—in springtime.

  Shallan felt her inner voice calming her fears once again. Corin would survive the desert whatever the perils. He had to. Then as promised he would join her upon the high walls of Car Carranis far to the north. Together they would help repel the barbarians, whilst in the west Ariane’s reinforced army would cast down the foul usurper of Kelthaine. Simple.

  Shallan smiled to herself: it was a fanciful dream but she would not give in to despair. She would see Corin again and damn everything else.

  Shallan had been discreet since their tryst; she’d kept her feelings for Corin quiet; still the perceptive Silon had noticed a change in her. She turned hearing soft movement behind her, smiled as he joined her now on deck.

  “A fine autumn day, my lady,” Shallan noticed how the small diamond sparkled in his left ear having caught the glare of the sun.

  “It’s beautiful,” she answered, smiling at the merchant. “Captain Barin says we should make Syrannos harbour by late early evening if this kind wind holds.”

  Silon cast a wary glance at the sky before returning her smile.

  “I do hope so, my lady,” he replied. “I’ve a busy few days ahead.” The merchant had not spoken of his business in Syrannos, but her new ally Barin had hinted Silon was plotting a coup with the renegade desert warlord known as Barakani. Together they planned to bring down the sultan, overthrowing his tyrannical rule in Sedinadola and returning power to the tribal princes that ruled there long ago. A dangerous business, Barin had said, and she didn’t doubt that either.

  But though she wished him well Silon’s plots did not concern Shallan. Once they had dropped the merchant off in the harbour; traded some goods, sought new sailors, and sampled some Permian fare; they would sail north to Kelwyn, restock, then continue up the coast until they rounded the cape of Fol and made for home territory.

  There at a secluded place beyond Vangaris, she and her father could disembark safely. They’d make their way overland to Car Carranis by secret paths whilst Barin sailed north to Valkador, his island home.

  It would doubtless prove a long voyage with pirates snapping at their heels and Caswallon’s probing eyes watching the western water. Morwella’s fleet was broken, and Kelthaine’s warships commandeered by Caswallon. Rael the Cruel ruled the Western Ocean now.

  Shallan wasn’t fazed by the danger. She was still young—quick of mind and hale of body. And she had her horn and her intuition. That inner voice that always calmed her so. Shallan curled a half smile. She secretly studied the hard, sun-darkened face of the merchant and wondered what he was thinking.

  “You risk much in your ventures, Silon,” Shallan probed, watching as the silvery coastline neared. Above the pale sands, the white multitude of minarets and spires of the city appeared to float suspended in the blazing heat. Gulls and terns weaved and swept low hurrying out to meet them, their wan cries carrying far over sun-bright water.

  Silon turned to face her again. His shrewd jet beads softened.

  “We all risk much in this game, Lady Shallan,” he answered quietly. “But amongst the teeming streets of yonder city lies a chance. Just a chance… if things go to plan I can help turn the tide of this impending war in our favour. But it’s tenuous—fragile. Our riskiest gambit lies with Zallerak and company in the desert.”

  Shallan nodded. She pictured the enigmatic bard in her mind and wondered why Corin disliked him so much.

  “Who is this Zallerak—I’ve never heard of his like before? A bard and songsmith—but from where?” When Silon didn’t respond she continued.

  “He is evidently more than just a bard. But just who is he, Silon?”

  “No one really knows,” Silon replied with a dismissive wave of his right hand. His look was guarded. Shallan suspected that he was withholding information. That something about the bard troubled him too.

  “Zallerak keeps his own counsel and follows his own reeds,” Silon embellished. “But he is a powerful ally and we would be lost without him. After all, Lady Shallan, Zallerak is our only defence against Caswallon and Morak’s sorcery, until we have remade the Tekara.”

  “Corin doesn’t trust him.” Her eyes followed the gulls as they swooped high above.

  Beside her Silon laughed. “Corin an Fol does not trust anyone, least of all himself!”

  “He is a good man.” Shallan tried to keep her voice neutral but the merchant smiled nodding slowly.

  “That he is. None better, and one day, my dear young lady, with your help he may come to realise it too.”

  “My help?” Shallan’s face had reddened. “I do not understand your meaning, sir. What help can I give?”

  “You already have. Now Corin has something to fight for. A reason to strive. And he needs purpose, his was a rough past without direction. Corin strays—always has. I’ve known that idiot a long time.”

  “What of my cousin, Queen Ariane? What happened between those two?”

  “That I do not know, though I suspect little. They are fond of each other of course, and Ariane was vulnerable after losing Roman in Crenna. Lovers? I think not. Besides, the queen has a vow to withhold.”

  “What vow?” This was news to Shallan, her cousin playing so close a hand.

  Silon shrugged away her question. “Your love will keep Corin focused. That’s what matters. And he needs to be focused.”

  “You speak as though Corin is more important than anyone else—even Zallerak and the queen.” Shallan was puzzled. “I thought he was only a hired hand,” she struggled, “a trusted Longswordsman and nothing more.”

  Silon did not answer her at first. Instead his gaze drifted landward across to the distant palms lining the pale sandy coast. Nearer now. “The Silver Strand,” he mused as if lost in thought. “Enchanting, is it not? Beguiling yet perilous.” Silon turned towards her again and smiled.

  “Corin an Fol is a paradox, my lady. Orphan, brawler and rebel rouser, haunted by a harrowing past. But there is nobility within—I’ve seen it shine through several times. Corin doesn’t know himself, you see—not really. And he’s scared to delve deeper.”

  “I
don’t take your meaning. How is Corin noble? Surely he is a common hireling—strong, brave and loyal, but there are many thus.”

  “Not like him. Corin hides from his feelings, but his strength lies in those nagging doubts that always make him look so serious. I thought he was wasted as a common soldier in the Wolves when I first espied him during the Second Permian War. That hidden quality was why I offered him a contract. He proved an asset in the main. Corin is a thinker and he has a good heart despite his own misgivings. But there is more...”

  “Go on.”

  Silon spread his tanned arms wide and sighed as if suddenly weary. “We are all pieces of a cosmic puzzle: Barin, Corin, you and I, even Zallerak—all of us are pieces on a board.

  “From their lofty towers in the skies the gods watch our every move through the passage of time. Mostly they let us be. There are myriad other worlds and their unfathomable minds wander the universe at will.

  “But every now and then a mortal appears that captures their interest and piques their curiosity. King Torro was one such in ancient times, Erun Cade (Kell) another. And Corin an Fol is also such a one.”

  “How is it that you know all this, Silon?” Shallan looked up suddenly as Fassof’s yell announced they were closing on the harbour.

  “I study the stars, Shallan—read the cards that translate their meaning. I have done so for years. Within that vast tapestry above lie the answers to every riddle.”

  Silon drew his cloak about his shoulders despite the heat.

  “We are at the threshold of a titanic struggle between good and evil. Between the servants of Law and the machinations of Chaos—led by Old Night the enemy of all worlds. He who we do not name. The Urgolais are his servants, Caswallon too—though the fool knows it not.”

  “Whatever the outcome of this struggle the result shall be pivotal. It will resound across the heavens affecting the fragile balance on many dimensions. These are the highest stakes, Shallan.

 

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