The Shattered Crown (The Legends of Ansu Book 2)

by J. W. Webb

  Ariane looked around at the sneering faces. They were shaggy and unkempt, so unlike their immaculate sire. A false prince on his pseudo throne, Rael had changed into a silk robe that matched the icy green of his eyes.

  Rael’s fingers sparkled with rubies and sapphires. The left hand hung languidly at his side as if too lazy to stir. He looked down on Ariane now and then. She turned her gaze to the tapestry-draped walls. Each one depicted violent encounters, dark and disturbing, the products of a twisted mind. They gave her scant comfort.

  “Left here by the previous tenant, my Queen,” Rael said amiably, seeing where her gaze went. “Baron Gusher had a somewhat macabre taste and a pronounced sense of drama. He was neurotic, though, particularly after I extracted certain body parts from him with a hot blade.”

  Ariane spat up at him but missed.

  “Your scum followers are almost as foul as you, Assassin!” Her voice was clear and strong, but deep inside terror was taking hold. Ariane almost lost it when she thought of her dear friends fighting for their lives, perhaps already dead or worse, being prepared for slow torture somewhere below. She reined herself in.

  I’ll not show weakness to such as these. She would not waver. Willow in a storm, she might bend but never snap. Ariane had King Nogel’s strength of spirit, his passion and his pride. They would gain scant coin from her.

  “Oh do call me Rael, Queen!” The Assassin was all smiles, his voice laconic and cultured, coated with a twist of venom. He radiated danger and was the most terrifying individual she’d encountered.

  There was a wrongness about him. That perfect face was warped and marred by some hidden poison. He made her flesh crawl. No wonder the Lord of Crenna was feared in all four realms.

  As Rael watched her, his smile vanished like rain on desert sand.

  “I’m sorry we do not match up to your standards,” he continued, “but we pirate folk don’t often mix with such grandiose company as your royal self.” His men were hooting and hollering, some banged the table tops with their eating knives and hurled food at each other.

  Most were clad in furs and leather. Many wore gold bands around their arms and wrists. Their savage faces were covered with tattoos and ritual scars depicting their standing amongst their fellows.

  They were the pirate captains of Crenna, scourge of the western waters, rapists and murderers everyone. Their greedy eyes blazed a savage lust. Ariane felt naked.

  The eating knives were the only weapons allowed in the feasting hall. It was not uncommon for fights to break out among these chieftains, causing bitter feuds that lasted for years. After one particularly spiteful occasion, when a ship’s captain gouged out his neighbor’s eye and ate it, the Assassin had forbidden all altercation in the hall, on pain of public dismemberment.

  Even so, one or two hadn’t taken the hint and had fed the crows on the walls with their flesh. They were a rough lot. They leered at Ariane as they filled their bellies with stolen ale.

  “Enough, lads. Calm down.” Rael’s jeweled hand waved them to silence. “She is a Queen, after all.” He smiled his cat-cream smile. “We don’t want to be disrespectful, do we?” The chieftains cheered and hooted their approval.

  “Besides,” continued their lord with a dramatic flourish of his right arm. “We must be wary. She is a biter. Quite nasty with a sword too, little bitch. I’m sure you’d concur. And what fool would teach a mere woman handle a blade. Their bitchy tongues are sharp enough as it is, no?” Some of the chieftains nodded at this last point, the rest just laughed.

  “I wonder what I should do with her in the immediate. She has been most impolite, even for a Queen,” Rael continued amiably. “Stealing inside my lovely castle, unbidden and uninvited, with her foolish friends, and slaying my guards too. Fortunate was it for them that none survived her blade. I would have had them flayed alive for letting themselves be overcome by a woman.”

  Rael wiped his sleeve with sudden irritated disgust. His expression was petulant. One of those idiot guards had managed to bleed on him.

  “Well, then? What do you think we should do with her?”

  “Let me take her, lord!” shouted a huge warrior, dribbling gobby torrents into his black beard. “Then I’ll slit her throat, and we’ll be done with her!”

  “Feed her to the dogs!” snarled another, a thin toothless cross-eyed man with a blue spider tattooed on his forehead.

  “Well, that is certainly tempting,” purred the Assassin, showing his perfect teeth. “Regrettably, she is worth more to us alive and… undamaged,” he told them. “Fret you not, though!” He held up his hands to quell their disappointed shouts. “We can still have a bit of fun, eh. Release her, Tolgan.” Rael waved a languid hand at one of the chieftains on the nearest bench. “Let’s see her crawl.”

  Grinning, Tolgan approached the throne, a big brute in his middle years and one of Rael’s favorites, a total wild man, black beard speckled with grey and long, tangled ashen hair. A scar ran from left hairline to lower right cheek. Whoever had dealt that blow had removed the lower half of Tolgan’s nose as well.

  To say he was ugly was being polite. Not that anyone told Tolgan he was ugly, except the Assassin when the mood took him—and even that was a rare occurrence.

  Tolgan grinned at Ariane. He reached down, worked the keys, and freed her arms and legs. “Here what the boss says? You’re to crawl!” Tolgan kicked her and sent the Queen sprawling. Rael chuckled from his chair.

  Ariane feigned submission. She lay on her belly, her fingers scraping the stone floor. Tolgan approached, made to launch another kick.

  He was much too slow.

  Ariane rolled. Roman had taught her this move years ago. She’d never thought she’d have to put it into practice. Her left leg shot up, blocking Tolgan’s kick whilst she hopped effortlessly onto her right, rising slowly with controlled ease.

  Tolgan cursed, launched another kick. She trapped his leg, swept the big man off balance, and then snapped out with her free leg, taking him hard in the balls. Tolgan groaned and slunk to his knees.

  Ariane stepped forward, grabbed Tolgan’s shaggy beard, and yanked down hard whilst bringing her knee up, crunching into his half-nose and cracking it back. Tolgan slunk prone amid hoots of laughter from his comrades below. They were still laughing when he came to and staggered back to the benches.

  Rael Hakkenon wasn’t laughing. Ariane had turned her attention to the Assassin, her face a cold mask of contempt. “Call yourself a prince—do you, Assassin? You’re no prince. You’re just a pile of shite!” Ariane spat up at the lazy-eyed lord seated on his baroque throne. Rael watched her in silence. No one there could read his expression.

  “Your days are numbered, bastard,” she told him. “I have friends who will avenge any harm done to my person, either by you or that murdering usurper in Kella. I don’t fear you, arsewipe, or those tosspots down there that pander to your clown’s court!”

  Several of the warriors drew back in surprise at these words. They were uncertain of what would follow. But the Assassin laughed out loud and clapped his gloved hands with pantomime delight.

  “Isn’t she a wonder, lads,” he said. “What spirit she has—and so genteel a tongue! Is this really a Queen we have here or some common slattern? Perhaps naughty old Nogel was shagging some whore that spawned this little bitch, made a change from all the boars he used to poke.”

  They laughed at that, those chieftains. King Nogel had been famed for his love of boar hunting—a love that had finally cost him his life.

  “Lucky old Caswallon.” Rael was smiling. “She’ll keep him occupied for weeks. What say you, lads?” Roars of approval came from the benches below.”

  Rael’s gaze narrowed, the smile fleeing his lips. “You’re bound for Kella, my love,” Rael told her. “And to a warm reception from a most attentive Lord Caswallon. Little can I even guess what he’s got planned for you. Sorcerers are said to have rather peculiar tastes, and I know this one’s rumored quite perverse. I have heard t
hat he likes hot tar and—”

  “Fuck you!” Ariane wrenched free of the huge guard holding her arm (he having replaced Tolgan, who lurked at the back of the hall nursing his swollen bollocks). The guard cursed, groped for her.

  Ariane jumped back out of reach. She caught the guard’s questing arm at his wrist and yanked him forward toward her whilst sending her free elbow hard into his face. The big man fell back.

  Ariane turned on the Assassin, still watching from his throne behind her. She kicked out hard and fast, catching Rael’s shin above his ankle. He hissed like a tomcat and silence filled the hall. Tired of the game, Rael leapt to his feet, his hand on sword hilt.

  “Time for a swift, fucking lesson, slut.” Rael’s humor had evaporated. He felt spiteful, vindictive. The little cunt had kicked him. He wanted to poke Ariane’s arse with something hot and sharp.

  But what’s this? Rael strained to see through the smoke to focus on the far doors. A cacophony had erupted from that end of the hall. At last he spied two of his warriors dragging a filthy scrawny wretch out from a dark corner, where until now he had apparently been hiding.

  “What the fuck is going on over there?” Rael snapped at the two guards. “And who is that idiot?”

  “Lord, we caught him spying,” replied the nearest of the warriors. This was a big ugly brute of a fellow who the Assassin didn’t recognize. But Rael never took much notice of his guardsmen. “He claims to be a talented bard and a conjurer of tricks. I think he is a madman, my lord!” barked the warrior.

  “I don’t care what you think, twat. Silence your tongue lest I remove it!” In a calmer voice he added.

  “Bring that pile of buggered bones here so that I can poke some holes in its useless hide.” The chieftains laughed and hollered at this new entertainment.

  The two guards and the wriggling wretch stopped a score of feet before the Assassin’s chair. The wretch stepped forward. He thrust the guards aside as though they were but a bother.

  “Unhand me, you knaves.” He scowled at them, and they drew back, uncertain. The Assassin leapt to his feet. Beneath him Ariane, on all fours again having been wrestled down by two fresh guards, stared wide-eyed at this weird disheveled newcomer.

  The stranger spoke: “I am called Zallerak.” He addressed the entire hall, his voice musical, clear, and compelling.

  “I’m a teller of tales, some say the greatest bard in all Ansu!” Rael Hakkenon watched him po-faced. He took to his throne again and bid the fellow closer. This diversion had cooled his fire a bit. But it had better prove riveting. He fingered his rapier’s hilt lazily, his hand itching to use it.

  “So… you are a bard,” Rael said lazily. “A boastful one, too,” He looked hard at the stranger. Rael had his jeweled dagger out of its sheath and was deftly rolling the blade between the fingers of his left hand.

  “I think actually that you are a spy,” Rael said. “Caswallon’s stinking goblin told me there was someone lurking about my castle plotting misdemeanors, although I can’t think that he meant a ghastly decaying stick like you. Speak quickly. I am not known for my patience!”

  “Oh, Gribble, yes I heard he returned.” Zallerak’s over-large eyes were everywhere. “You shouldn’t listen to Soilfins, Assassin. They weld fact to fiction and fabricate duplicity. They are also rather vulgar,” he added rubbing his long nose with a grubby finger. “And one does so detest vulgarity.”

  Ariane, forgotten for the moment, watched the strange scarecrow man. His apparel was shoddy and a cloying stink clung to his pale skin, but the stranger’s voice resonated power. There was witchery here, of that she was certain. This Zallerak’s eyes sparkled like sapphires beneath his shaggy brow. Also, those two silent guards at his side seemed oddly familiar.

  “Enough fucking dribble!” Rael Hakkenon was angry again. “Who are you really?”

  Zallerak didn’t respond. His deep, clear eyes were still surveying the wall. He appeared distracted, unfazed.

  Rael Hakkenon leapt from the throne, kicking Queen Ariane aside and jumping down until he held the dagger point to Zallerak’s throat. “Speak, filth!” he snarled.

  And Zallerak obliged.

  As he spoke, his words drifted across the hall in rhythmic waves, lulling the atmosphere and easing the tension. The Assassin’s jaw dropped a little. He looked puzzled. He withdrew the dagger from the vicinity of Zallerak’s throat and re-sheathed it in silence. Rael listened to the incanted words and before he knew it, he too was caught in the web.

  ***

  “I am the journeyman,” Zallerak told them, as if they were children seated goggle-eyed before him, “the spinning wheel, once lost never found.

  “I am newly ancient and recently old, returned and departed, both weak and strong.” As he spoke, Zallerak’s voice grew stronger and more resonant. It soaked into the tapestries and lulled the feasting fire’s flames.

  All listened in silence. Even the dogs had paused from their gnawing.

  “I am the tool of fate,” continued Zallerak, “the watcher at the gate, the paradox, the king’s wise fool. I am the eye that sees four ways. I see within, I see without. I see past futures and certain doubt—and time long gone but yet to be.

  “I am the maker of riddles but the solver of none. I came here when it ended. I left when it begun.”

  The words made no sense, but the voice was empathic and soothing. On either side of the fire trench the chieftains slunk back in their stools. Their eye lids were heavy. Even the Assassin let the words wash through him, unconcerned that he comprehended nothing spoken. Rael didn’t often relax.

  And there lay the problem.

  Sorcery! Rael shook his head free of the words assaulting it.

  This bastard’s a sorcerer!

  Rael rejected the words caressing him. He rallied his iron will and shook off the spell. Furious, Rael paced the hall, enraged at being hoodwinked—if only for a few seconds. He kicked a slouching warrior to his feet and yelled at his drowsy chieftains.

  “Seize this gibbering warlock!” Rael ordered. “Take the wanker outside and slay him in an unpleasant manner!” He kicked a second fellow, this time hard in his groin, but the warrior barely stirred. “Wake up you dopey fucking slugs!” The Assassin rounded on Zallerak. Rael would finish this bastard himself, he decided.

  The witch-bard ignored him. He continued his dirge of riddles, oblivious to Rael Hakkenon’s fury. Some of the warriors were responding to their leader’s harsh command but found their limbs too heavy to move. The more they resisted the spell, the weaker they felt.

  The chant echoed round the hall. One by one, the chieftains sank into a deep and troubled slumber. Only the Assassin remained conscious and, strangely, the two guards and Queen too. The rest, even the dogs, filled the hall with their snores.

  ***

  The bard stopped abruptly, sensing the Assassin’s proximity. Zallerak had a satisfied smile on his face. After all this time he could still do it.

  He allowed himself a moment’s self-congratulation and looked down at his body. Gone was the scarecrow. In its place stood a tall, powerfully built man sporting a magnificent cloak of midnight blue, draped over a turquoise tunic of softest linen.

  His harp hung golden from the black lacquered belt at his waist. Zallerak hadn’t even needed to use it. A yard or two away the dreadful Assassin fellow eyed him darkly. Zallerak wasn’t quite sure why the spell hadn’t worked fully on the Lord of Crenna. It had slowed him, but this Rael was a fighter. He was struggling hard to stay alert.

  “Almost done,” Zallerak announced, grinning at the Assassin. At his side the faces of the two warriors blurred and shimmered, and their bodies altered. Ariane gasped, then laughed in relieved delight. Before her stood a smiling Roman Parrantios and dour-faced but slightly bemused Corin an Fol.

  “Sorcery!” Rael Hakkenon’s fury severed Zallerak’s hold on him. “Fucking sorcery!” Like a lightning strike, his rapier was free in his left hand. The Assassin lunged hard and fast for Zaller
ak’s exposed chest.

  But Roman was ready. The bearded champion struck the Assassin’s blade aside and it clattered across the hall. Roman shouldered into him, knocking the smaller man to the ground. Roman stepped forward, sword held high, eager for the kill.

  Snake swift the Assassin rolled out of reach. Rael leapt to his feet, a slender dagger balanced in either hand. He drew back his right arm but was hurled backward by an unseen force, pinned to the wall by the weirdly dreadful eyes of the warlock called Zallerak.

  “Know this, Assassin,” said the bard. “Your days of rule on this island grow shorter by the minute (an obvious statement but effective nonetheless), and your paltry plans are all but undone.

  “Your cohort in Kelthaine will be most displeased when he learns of your failure to deliver him his prize!” Zallerak smiled maliciously. “Oh, incidentally,” he continued, relishing the contorted rage on Rael’s face as he tried to win free from the invisible bonds that held him.

  “I freed young Prince Tarin a few days past, when first I arrived at this cheerful place. Your guards are very careless, murderous one. May I suggest you chastise them once we have taken our leave? Silly me, you’re already planning that. You should try another hobby, man. All this bad attitude and butchery is most unhealthy. I mean, you can’t have many friends, old lad.”

  Zallerak turned to the fire trench, his smile perfectly wicked.

  “And…you really should take more care of the fires in your hall, Assassin; neglected thus, they could get out of hand!” In response to his words the flames erupted with sudden violence, soaring high above their heads, reaching out, licking hungrily at the macabre tapestries covering the walls, rendering them an inferno of crackling, hissing hatred.

  Zallerak no longer needed his power to keep the Assassin at bay, the wrath of the fire had him trapped. His warriors were stirring from their stupor, some already ablaze and once aware, their horrified screams filled the hall.

  Men choked and coughed, the dogs bolted for the doors amid howls and whimpers. The hall was a cauldron of cooking flesh.