by J. W. Webb
The Queen, though, was hiding her fear magnificently. She looked thoroughly pissed off but not scared. Royalty or not, she was a fine woman Corin thought. He flashed an optimistic grin her way, but she glared back, dismal.
“It has gone.” Bleyne stated the apparent without hint of irony. He seemed almost disappointed. A slight flicker of annoyance creased his normally impassive face. “I wasted an arrow for nothing.”
Beside him Corin grumbled agreement. He’d lost a good throwing knife. He’d tried to regain it when they fled, but like its intended target, it had vanished into mist. Roman coughed, adjusted his cloak, noticing with a start that it still smoldered. He patted it angrily and then licked his fingers in pain.
They resumed their journey, pressing harder. The renewed need for urgency weighing on all of them.
“What in Elanion’s sacred name was that thing?” Galed had only just recovered his voice. He still trembled like jelly but just managed to persuade his teeth stay together long enough to form a sentence. When no one responded, he asked again, this time aiming the question at Bleyne.
The archer’s face revealed nothing, but his answer chilled them to the bone. “Urgolais,” he said. “One of the Shadowy Ones—no doubt about that. They have our scent.” He grinned.
“You don’t have to be so cheerful about it,” Corin told the archer.
Bleyne ignored him and instead glanced almost longingly behind at the sunlit valley. “A nightmare being banished to the far side of Uffarn. It is as the Goddess has told us. Old Night awakens, and his servants muster. War is coming to Ansu. Come on!” Corin shook his head in resignation.
Oh, do shut up…
“Let’s hope that bloody ship is waiting for us,” muttered Roman from somewhere behind.
“Barin will be there,” Corin replied.
“He better be…”
The air was still chilly, not the menacing cold of the valley but raw nonetheless. It was accompanied by a sharp tang of salt carried on the wind. Corin couldn’t suppress a smile; it felt good to smell the sea again. It reassured him. He’d never been to Kashorn but guessed they were very near.
He led the way with eager strides. The afternoon sun passed overhead, and evening beckoned. The sound of the waves crashed and boomed somewhere below. Ahead lay gorse and heather brushed by wind, beyond that, nothing but air.
They cleared the furze break and as one stopped and gaped in wonder. The scene before them had dramatically changed.
They stood poised at the knife edge of a great cliff, sheer and flawless, flanking to right and left as far as the eye could see. Below, sea birds shrieked. Corin spied fulmars, kittiwakes, and puffins, their small shapes swooping and diving amongst the towering cliffs.
Beyond the birds, the Western Ocean churned and heaved its rhythmic dance. White horses rode upon its wide expanse, cantering across from the sun-drenched horizon. At last they had reached the ocean!
Corin leaned out precariously. He glimpsed a stone harbor far below, its arm thrust seaward like a broken finger. Beyond that, torchlight flickered amidst smoky roofs.
Kashorn.
There it lay. Far below where they stood and mostly hidden from view, sheltered from the sea’s wrath by a huge shoulder of rock. Corin gazed seaward. He cursed silently. The Starlight Wanderer was nowhere in sight. Perhaps the water was deep enough for her to moor hard against the quay and out of their field of vision. He prayed it was so.
“Any suggestions on how we get down?” Corin asked Bleyne. He assumed the archer would know, as everyone else appeared blank, and this was new territory for him.
Bleyne nodded. “It is not as bad as it looks,” he replied with his customary casualness. “There is a path hereabouts, cut deep into the rock face. It’s very steep and slippery but manageable, with care.”
“Oh wonderful!” exclaimed Galed. “Now we’re to be eagles. I think I’d prefer a pit full of snakes!”
“That comes later,” said Corin with a smile.
A short search revealed Bleyne’s path. A sharp wedge, it chiseled into the cliff face and descended at an alarming pitch. One slip and they would be broken like twigs on the rocks below. Shallow and treacherous steps were cut into the rock, weathered smooth by wind and salt.
After some hesitation, mainly on the part of Galed, they commenced the descent. It was painfully slow. They clung to the rock like limpets, descending at slug pace. Vertigo tugged them. They felt exposed and vulnerable as they tenuously made their way down toward the town below.
It seemed to take an age. A moment’s lack of concentration would prove fatal, sending them spinning down into the crashing waves. Corin, in front and below, paused to allow his friends to rest. He took a look around whilst the others caught up.
Westward, the sun slid bloody into the ocean. The sky too was flushed with violent crimson, promising a clear day tomorrow. It was beautiful, but they were not really in appreciative mood. Reluctantly, they resumed their descent at Corin’s word. Bleyne brought up the rear, his expression bored again.
Two thirds of the way down was a wide ledge. Here they paused again, rested a while, and regained their sense of balance. Galed sat pale faced in the corner, whilst the others stood surveying. All about, seabirds swooped and dived, their harsh cries deriding these impostors to their craggy domain. Ariane took a seat on a lump of rock and shut her eyes for a minute, gathering her thoughts.
Corin, Roman, and Bleyne approached the rim of the shelf with care. Lying on their stomachs they looked down at the harbor. Much nearer. The sea chopped and battered the granite wall, but all else seemed calm. Of Barin’s ship there was no sign. Corin swore under his breath then looked up as Roman grabbed his arm.
“Look!” he said, pointing to the southern side of the harbor still partially hidden by cliffs. “Do you see them?” Roman hinted at tiny figures standing on the harbor wall. They were gazing seaward, clearly waiting for a ship to arrive, their hoarse shouts borne up on the wind.
“Your mercenary friends are down there,” announced Bleyne, whose eyes were sharper than the others. “Look, there is old kettle-head and the tall grey-eyed captain that leads them.” Corin followed the archer’s gaze, then scowled when he recognized Hagan and the helmeted Borgil. A smaller figure at their side seemed oddly familiar too. Corin cursed their ill fortune.
They continued the painful decline, grateful that the path angled behind a huge rock, concealing their whereabouts from anyone looking up.
Down they struggled until they reached another ledge. This time they had a clear view of both town and harbor—and were filled with dismay. Kashorn was awash with soldiers.
“Captain Barin must have got wind of them,” Ariane swore heartily. “Perhaps he will slip into the harbor at nightfall,” she hoped.
“Those men await something,” said Roman, watching keenly. “I fear we are expected, my Queen. Are you certain these are the same rogues that followed us through the forest?” he asked Bleyne. The archer nodded in silence.
“I know that man.” Corin pointed to the tall leader of the mercenaries. “Hagan Delmorier,” he spat into the wind. “I fought alongside him in the desert. He’s a bastard.”
Corin remembered the tall Morwellan from the Permio wars; Hagan was an accomplished swordsman and a ferocious fighter. He was intelligent and ruthless, caring for nothing but gold coin and easy women. They hadn’t got on. Hagan played with weighted dice.
“Well, it seems that the villain serves Caswallon now,” said Roman with a snort of derision. “Come, we had better get ready for trouble!”
“Are you mad, captain?” Galed was aghast. “There must be thirty of them!” He shook his head in horror. “You fighting men, you’re all bloody daft!”
“Look!” pointed Ariane suddenly. “There is Barin’s ship!”
Corin felt a flood of relief as The Starlight Wanderer emerged at last from the gloaming. Twin masts and proud, the brig was a valiant sight. The last crimson rays of the setting sun burnished
her fourteen sails, the main emblazoned with the great Sea Eagle.
She rounded the harbor arm. Below, the soldiers were shouting and waving their arms in surprise and alarm. It was apparent now they’d not expected this vessel. That at least was good news.
Corin could make out the towering bulk of Barin minding the helm whilst his men hurried about deck, hauling sheets and making ready for docking. They appeared agitated, and Barin’s voice boomed orders like a man possessed. The ship tacked landward. She stole into the harbor like a fox entering a hen pen. Hagan’s men waited with swords drawn and spears held high.
“What is that out there?” asked Roman in sudden disbelief. He shielded his eyes and cursed in realization. Another sail had appeared beyond the harbor wall, followed closely by two more. Pirate ships! They were Crenise pirate ships.
“He is being pursued!” shouted Corin. “We must help him! Hurry!” Without waiting for an answer, he reclaimed the steps. The others seemed not to hear. They watched in growing despair as three sleek black-sailed ships rounded the harbor wall. These were much smaller than Barin’s vessel; they were faster, though, and would be able to tack easier in the limited space of the harbor.
They glided landward, quickly gaining on the Starlight Wanderer. These were the Assassin’s sharks, his raiding ships, and terror of the western waters. Narrow hulls painted black as jet, they glistened like oily serpents, sinuous and lithe.
Corin remembered the last time he had seen a craft like these. All too well he remembered. He knew the narrow hulls were built for speed. He knew their short keels allowed them to enter shallow waters. He knew how swift and deadly they were.
Once again, he was fourteen years old on that beautifully brutal morning. His old scar twitched, and he fingered Biter’s hilt hungrily. Each ship bore a single square sail of black cloth emblazoned with a red fist clutching a hapless bird by its broken neck. The emblem of the Lord of Crenna, feared and dreaded throughout all decent lands.
Bastards…BASTARDS! I’M COMING!
Corin slithered down at speed. His mouth frothed as the battle madness seized him, the old rage reaching boiling point within. Again he saw his father cut down, witnessed his brothers’ greying corpses, heard the terrified cries of his womenfolk dragged by their hair to waiting ships whilst their cottage burned.
Corin quickened his already reckless pace, slipping more than once but somehow regaining his feet. Gulls yelled obscenities at him, and below men shouted. Corin cared not. His mind was a lit fuse, sparking, eager to explode. Other voices mocked him as the hard stone bruised his reckless descent. He heard the hag laughing at the ford.
You ride into peril, Corin an Fol!
Images of the Huntsman and the hooded Urgolais melded into the contorted faces of murdering pirates. Hatred fuelled Corin with strength, channeling his wrath. He plunged down, heedless of the yelling soldiers that witnessed his descent. Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!
***
Hagan Delmorier, mercenary captain, renegade, and ruthless brigand—recently banished from his homeland, Morwella, for unspeakable deeds, so the Duke said— surveyed the harbor with cold, grey eyes.
Twats were late again. Crenise not known for reliability. But then Hagan was dispassionate this evening. He wasn’t interested in the politics and obsessions of that twisted usurper back in Kella City.
And he had no love for Rael Hakkenon, either. Who would? The Assassin was an evil whoreson. Hagan smiled slightly at that thought. What did that make him? Cruel, cynical, and brutal—certainly all of those. But he wasn’t sadistic, not like the Lord of Crenna.
Rael Hakkenon gave Hagan the creeps, and Caswallon unnerved him in a most unmanly manner. The sorcerer was warped and depraved, made Hagan’s skin crawl. Truth be told, Hagan wanted no part of any of this Queen-kidnapping business.
He had no quarrel with Kelwyn’s leading lady—and she was a fine-looking woman besides. He’d spied her once whilst on contract work in silver Wynais. No, this wasn’t really Hagan’s province. He preferred a good old ambush or skirmish—like those halcyon days down in fly-stinky Permio.
But who could refuse the gold Caswallon had promised him—and Rael too. Hagan would be rich once this little job was done. And it shouldn’t prove that difficult. There was only Roman Parrantios to worry about, and a crafty crossbow bolt would put paid to him. And then there was Corin an Fol…
Hagan had been stunned, though he hadn’t shown it of course, when the tyke Cale had mentioned the name of his former companion. Corin and he had had some fine old times during the Permio conflicts. But nothing lasts in this life.
Corin an Fol was a total shite. He’d cheated at cards and blamed it on Hagan. There had been a fight—Corin had carved an exit with that horrible sword of his, leaving Hagan to mop up the rest, very nearly skewered by a half score vengeful Permian merchants.
Hagan had sworn he’d kill Corin when next he saw him. But he hadn’t seen him for three years, his work taking him up into Leeth, where Daan Redhand was carving a name for himself. But now Corin was here in northern Kelthaine, and if Hagan’s scouts were to be trusted, approaching this very spot.
Hagan grinned—a rare thing that, he seldom smiled. Cale looked up at him and grinned too. The boy worshipped Hagan, and for his part, the captain was fond of the lad. Cale was bright, a survivor. He would do well, providing Borgil didn’t kill him.
Cale had pissed off Hagan’s second with his gobby cheek. Borgil—not the sharpest instrument, though loyal and usefully viscous with that axe of his—had been the butt of Cale’s wit the other night. Something about losing six of his men to wood sprites and bog faeries.
Borgil, being a touch sensitive about the subject, had taken umbrage and vowed to gut the lad there and then. Hagan, laughing, had intervened. But Borgil wasn’t the forgiving type, and Hagan feared for the lad’s future. Not that he gave a fuck, really. The only thing that mattered to Hagan was gold, lots of it coming his way soon. Oh, and Corin an Fol of course.
“Captain, they’re here!” Borgil’s gruff tones came from further down the quay. Cale paled a touch and muttered something inaudible. Hagan ignored him.
“‘Bout bloody time!” Hagan shouted back. He shielded his eyes against the setting sun and gazed seaward. The Northman’s ship had arrived, as Caswallon had promised it would, and so had the pirates hot on its tale. Another shout reached him from a fellow minding the back streets.
“People up on the cliff! Coming down, Captain! The idiot in front’s in some hurry.”
“That’ll be Corin,” replied Hagan. “He owes me money and cannot wait to pay.”
“And I thought he needed the privy!” laughed the fellow up the lane.
Hagan smiled a second time that evening. This was going to be some fun after all. He ruffled Cale’s ginger mop and eased his broadsword in its scabbard.
“Come on, Master Cale—it’s time to settle an old score.”
Chapter 17: The Starlight Wanderer
Roman shook himself into action. Corin had vanished below, and they were standing gawping like fishes washed ashore.
“Come on!” he barked at the others. “We have to reach Barin’s ship before those pirates do! Follow me!” Ariane nodded, her dark eyes defiant and angry.
“Let’s get this done,” she said. Meanwhile, Bleyne hoisted Galed to his feet and bade him follow.
The squire gulped. “What about those mercenaries?” he asked as they vacated the ledge.
“We’ll have to crash through them!” shouted Roman without glancing back. “Stick close to me, my Queen! Don’t worry Galed, boy. I will protect you!”
“That’s a great comfort,” muttered the squire, adding, “wait for me!” as once again he was left behind.
Corin yelled as he ran hopping and skipping down the treacherous stair. The battle rage had claimed him again. The berserkergang—a rare thing that gave him terrible energy for a while then left him worn and shattered.
It was useful, though, had got him out
of countless scrapes. His former weariness was blown asunder and days of brooding washed away. Crenna, those pirates he so hated, were down there.
I’m coming. Get ready!
Corin grinned. Fighting! Hack and slice! Stab and hue, and kill the bastards!
This is what I do best!
At last he could vent his fury on a tangible enemy below.
Down he stormed, Clouter in right hand, mindless of the slippery stone beneath his feet. Down and down, until he reached the tumbled slate roofs of the smoke-wracked town. The soldiers’ shouts were closing. He could see them rushing through the narrow, twisting streets. Corin didn’t care. He’d cut through them on his way to the pirates.
“Corin! Please…we’re coming!” A women’s voice up above. The Queen’s tones eased into his rage. Corin slowed and for the first time in his life controlled that awful anger boiling up inside him.
Ariane—she needs me…
He stole a frantic glance behind, only now remembering his friends. Corin saw that Roman was leading the others down the cliff. They too were hurrying, and even Galed had a sprint on.
Corin struggled to master his rage. Every nerve in his wiry body urged him leap down, start the killing. He channeled that rage with a new-found discipline and hung back, regaining his breath.
I am more than just a killer—and she needs me.
Corin leaped onto the roof of the nearest building. He crouched there with Clouter angled over his back and waited for his friends to catch up. Below, the streets were full of angry shouts. Corin assessed the situation. He wished he’d kept the bow and not given it to Tamersane.
Still, he was cooler, the rage brought under control by his haphazard decent and Ariane’s worried shout. But it was still inside him, latent fire awaiting its chance to reclaim him. But he wouldn’t let it, not this time. For the first time in his life, Corin an Fol was thinking about someone else.