The Shattered Crown (The Legends of Ansu Book 2)

by J. W. Webb

Time to leave…

  “Hurry!” snapped Zallerak reaching down for Ariane’s arm. He hoisted her aloft as though she were a child. The Queen was too stunned to speak, caught halfway between joy and horror at the furnace enveloping the hall

  “It’s time to run, my dear, don’t you think?” Zallerak’s head twitched toward the carnage at the tables. “Those not burnt alive will be mad with vengeance, and their master is not for dying just yet, methinks. Follow me, friendlies!”

  Ariane hugged Roman amid tears and then reached up to plant a long lingering kiss on Corin’s lips whilst throwing her arms about him.

  “I knew you were not dead!” she cried while Corin got his breathe back, “though I fear that captain Barin may be.” Corin blinked a yes.

  As they fled the furnace, Ariane told them how Barin had been shut beyond the castle gate when she was captured. Corin said nothing hoping his friend was still alive.

  “But I’m so happy to see you both,” she said, kissing Corin again, who for his part looked a bit startled.

  “You pair will be dead if you don’t stop that stupid lip sucking and look lively,” snapped Zallerak. “This is hardly the time for exchanging felicitations. Follow me!” His words parted the flames ahead. Tall and imperious, he led them from the burning hall.

  Behind them the Assassin roared and spat bile. Free at last from Zallerak’s coercion, Rael kicked and bit those fighters in reach. Some were only just awaking from their enforced slumber.

  Rael’s face was livid with rage, and his expensive robe was ruined, but he beat a way through the towering flames.

  “You won’t get far, wizard!” yelled Rael. “I’ll roast your fucking head on a spit. I’ll pickle and bleach it afterwards, then grow tomatoes in your hollow witchy skull. Escape from this fortress is impossible!”

  “Impossible?” Zallerak looked back with a derisive snort. “Nothing is impossible, dear boy. In all the nine worlds and forgotten oceans, nothing!” He turned again, entered the great doorway at the end of the hall, then stopped.

  The way was blocked.

  Graan stood there, huge and hulking, clad in iron, his massive gauntleted hands resting on the heavy mace in front of him, the twin axes strapped across his back. Rael’s bodyguard grinned, showing uneven teeth. His breath reaching them was rancid.

  Zallerak yawned. “Will one of you buffoons gut this moron? We haven’t got all bloody day.” Graan stepped forward, swinging the mace, his huge arms bulging with sinewy, corded muscle.

  Corin lunged for his throat. Graan knocked Biter aside and kicked out at Corin’s groin, narrowly missing. Beside his friend, Roman let out a shout and swung his broadsword at the brute in a deadly arc. This too Rael’s massive bodyguard deflected. Once more he raised his mace, going in for the kill. Graan stopped, grunted and looked down in sudden shock.

  Ariane’s rapier had slid beneath his ribs. Slowly, heavily, Graan crumpled. Roman swung his broadsword a second time and the bearded, shaggy head rolled free, trailing scarlet beneath the doorway. Ariane wiped her rapier on his cloak and ran from the hall.

  “That felt good!” she said. “Come on, let’s kill some more of these shitheads!”

  They ran. Behind them, the Assassin’s hell-cat yell announced his closeness. He’d survived with only a dozen of his war chiefs intact. These were baying like wolves on blood scent.

  Down through the twisting, torch-lit passage, Zallerak led the Queen and her fighters until they emerged into the courtyard. Dawn’s wan light paled the granite walls and arches. Panting, they stopped for a moment and regained their bearings, much to Zallerak’s annoyance. “Come on, you loons,” he scolded. “No time for recreation. That lot are almost upon us!”

  Outside the gate the sound of fighting was clear. It seemed miraculously that Barin was still alive. Behind them, the passage resounded with the sound of many feet and shouting.

  They vacated the courtyard.

  Corin and Roman slew the new guards at the gate, unbarred the doors, and heaved one open. They leaped through just as the Assassin crashed across the courtyard, yelling and spitting obscenities. Corin slammed the heavy door shut in Rael’s face.

  “You can stay in there you little shite!” Corin yelled at the shrieking Assassin as he slid an iron bar through the handles. He turned and grinned at Ariane, and she grinned back. Now to go help Barin and get their arses off this island. Despite the odds, they had escaped from Kranek Castle.

  But as things turned out, that was the easy bit.

  Chapter 29: A Renewal of Loathing

  Galed wanted to crawl beneath the pavers that covered the square outside the gate. Only Cale’s petrified face held him to courage. He couldn’t let the boy die. He was Ariane’s squire (whatever that meant), had to do something.

  Though the fear inside him threatened Galed’s sanity, somehow he remained on his feet. The ogre-statues advanced slowly, inexorably, creaking and grinding across the square. They were in the service of the hooded figure in the shadows, of that there was no doubt.

  Galed recalled the dog-creature near Kashorn. Urgolais—Bleyne had known back then. The Urgolais had returned, and one of them was here controlling these monstrous granite ogres.

  The ground trembled beneath them, and strange alien lights glowed from the figures erstwhile lifeless eyes. From their gaping black mouths issued a sinister smokiness coupled with a high-pitched ululation.

  In front of Galed stood Bleyne the archer, all his arrows spent. At his side were Cale, Fassof, and the sailors. Ahead of them, an island alone, stood Barin. What a warrior he was. Galed had never imagined, let alone seen, his type before.

  Barin stood resolute and stern, the great axe gripped in his mighty fists. His defiance marked him as a demi god from a time of sagas and myth. Galed, despite the horror, was bursting with pride. If only Roman were here! And Corin an Fol. And my Queen! He couldn’t die in better company.

  But Barin was exhausted. He refused to show it, but he was almost done. The Northman’s enemies lay hewn in heaps at his feet. His body was bruised blue-purple, the bleeding arm weakened him, and every muscle screamed rebellion.

  Barin ignored the pain. He raised the heavy war axe, waited for the shrieking, scraping towers of stone to arrive. One thing Barin noted: they weren’t overfast.

  Here we go...

  Barin spat blood and strode to meet them. He swung Wyrmfang two-handed, striking the nearest statue hard, a contorted troll-like creature, all craggy teeth and claw. Barin might as well have struck a mountain. The axe bit into the stone, but the creature didn’t notice. The force of his blow numbed Barin’s arm from finger to shoulder.

  Ouch…

  Barin squared his jaw, braced his legs, and swung again, ducking low as the monster reached toward him with stone arms the width of a fat man’s belly. Again his axe blow faltered and the stubby claws reached slowly for his throat. Barin cursed the name of every god he could think of. His body was screaming pain.

  Barin knew he was spent, but he summoned his strength for one last determined show of defiance. He could see that the other statues were closing on his crew and friends. It sickened him that they were all to die.

  Barin hacked at the talons, severing a finger, but the other nine closed around his chest. He was hoisted high, helpless as a newborn lamb in that stone embrace despite his massive strength. The granite grip tightened like a tourniquet. Barin’s broad chest burned like fire and his head spun. He fought for breath and vainly struck at the monster with his dinner-plate fists.

  Barin knew he would soon be crushed to death. Slowly and inevitably, the ogre crushed him the way a great snake from the southern jungles coils around its prey, squeezing out life and resistance.

  What a way to go…

  Barin was seconds away from blacking out in his agony when the terrible pain subsided. Stars whirled in his head. He felt the air rush passed his ears as he was pitched to the floor.

  Huge and baleful, the stone figure stooped over him then froze.
A thin wail issued from its cavernous mouth. Barin gulped in air and grinned.

  Convenient time to have a sorcery malfunction.

  With his distorted but slowly restored vision, Barin saw smoky steam escaping the ogre’s gaping maw. It didn’t look healthy. Barin stood up and carefully checked all his bits were in place. He felt like he’d been stomped on by a herd of wild elk, but he managed a lopsided grin.

  Someone’s in our team.

  As he watched it, Barin saw small cracks appear all over the frozen troll thing’s rock-wrought hide, and it began oozing smelly green liquid. Then from somewhere close came the clear peel of harp strings, accompanied by a resonant voice singing words Barin didn’t understand.

  He didn’t need to. Barin was from Valkador, an island once in thrall to the witch-lore of Helga Threebolts, his grandfather’s spiteful second wife. She of the emerald eyes had turned his father into a bear when he spurned her lusty advances, Helga being bored with the old man.

  Helga Threebolts had come from the far north, a place of weird skies, darkness, and cold, where shamans ruled the roost. Many such still wander through Leeth, casting death spells and witching up gales out of sheer caprice. Yes, Barin knew sorcery.

  The words were compelling, challenging. Barin guessed it was some ancient song. There was power in the singer’s voice but a positive stalwart power that challenged the malice radiated by the shadowy figure beyond. The singer mocked the statues with his lyrics.

  Barin watched wide eyed as the ogre-statue’s stone cast split with yawning fissures. It shuddered, belching steam and more of the foul green resin. The creature’s wailing grew louder and higher in pitch.

  Barin covered his ears from the din and saw that the other ogre-statues were also frozen and his comrades were recovering—Elanion be blessed!

  The singer’s voice filled the square, noble and pure above the hissing wails of the dying statues. His harp peeled chords of power, each one louder and more defined than the last. And every note assaulted the statues as no physical weapon had done.

  Their fissured forms were swaying, tottering and rocking to and fro, brittle granite galleons at the mercy of a raging storm. Gaping rents were spreading across their stone torsos and limbs, yawning wider, oozing slime.

  Beneath Barin’s feet the ground was slippery. Dark vapor rose from the flagstones, lingering fetid for several seconds before the breeze took it away.

  Barin saw the distant hooded figure had raised a claw-like finger and was pointing at someone he couldn’t see. The mystery harper no doubt! Malice blazed from the Dog Lords’ eyes, but this time it wasn’t aimed at Barin or his men.

  Like dominoes in a line, the Urgolais’s creatures crumbled and groaned, crashing thunderous to the ground, exploding into powdery dust.

  The singer had stopped and harp notes ceased. All was deathly quiet.

  Barin, turning in a wary slow circle, saw a very tall man some yards behind him by the gates.

  A strange sight to behold, he was garbed in midnight blue cloak thrown over a tunic of turquoise. The man’s hair was very long and fine, silvery gold in hue. The breeze tossed it across his face so Barin couldn’t see his eyes. In his gloved right fist, the stranger gripped a small golden harp, while the other was raised, palm in defiant challenge to the hoodie across the square.

  The Enchanter stepped out from the shadow of the gatehouse. The hooded figure, whom Barin assumed must be Morak Dog-turd himself, was flickering, shifting from substance to smoke, then to substance again. The atmosphere between these two was electric, and Barin guessed there were old scores he couldn’t begin to imagine being settled here.

  No one moved. Barin’s men, his friends, the Crenise guard, the Assassin, and his captains lurking behind the gate—all who could watched for the outcome in spell-struck awe.

  ***

  Zallerak had first sensed his enemy’s return several months earlier. High in his windy tower he had often gazed out, unrest tugging at his ancient bones, a job not finished. For seven hundred years the bard had dwelt alone in that remote tower on the edge of the world, a spike of gleaming stone, soaring high above the cliffs of Cape Fol, a lone sentinel to wind and wave.

  During that time the bard’s only companions had been sea birds and porpoises, and now and then the odd siren soothed his needs and shared his bed. It was a time of study, a time of reflection, and above all, a time of much-needed peace. For the war had raged very long, the war he started with the Dog Lord.

  They were two adversaries, both respected among their peoples, both seeking power. Throughout that millennia-long strife, they had battled each other with sword and spell craft.

  Then at last he’d cast his enemy down and sent his soul screaming back to the void. His people had won. But they too were broken and their power all but gone.

  Most fled to foreign lands: Some crossed the ocean to Gol before its fall, whilst others fared east into territories unknown. Zallerak stayed put, keeping his disguise. Men’s memories are short, they soon forgot he existed at all. But he knew that one day his arch-foe would return for a re-match.

  Then the day came when the Tekara shattered, allowing the enemy to break through from without. Since that moment he’d had to work fast lest the adversary outmaneuver him. That “fast work” concluded with his meeting the idiot Prince and journeying here to Crenna to commence phase two: freeing the Princeboy and awaiting the arrival of the newcomers, those mortals who would help him reach his endgame.

  And so at last here in Crenna, Zallerak of the Golden People faced the Dog Lord once again. It was just a test, they both knew that, just a probe to see how strong the other was these days.

  Morak’s power lay in coercion and mind bending. The Dog Lord manipulated fear in others and turned it against them. Zallerak favored psychokinetic blasts and auto-suggestion. Both used lightning when it was available. And both knew weather tricks, summoning gales and torrents and fog and such. Elementary but useful on occasion.

  But both enchanters were weak compared to centuries past. That said, Zallerak had the edge this time. He was here in body and person whereas Morak was just a manifestation, a ghost of night and shadows. And he’d lost his spear.

  Zallerak could see his enemy’s bad self lurking in the cave in the void. Morak projected his power from that awful place. His real essence was contained in jars linked by crackling cables, a magic that had to be earthed else it would fizzle and fail.

  From those bubbling jars the mind of Morak worked its malevolence, while his astral form guided it, sending up twisted jabs of pain like arrows probing and lancing inside Zallerak’s head.

  At last it was his time to strike back.

  ***

  Those watching knew nothing of the inner battle currently raging between these enchanters, the very tall, blue-eyed one and the sinister, twisted dog-snouted hoodie. Friend and foe watched in awe awaiting the outcome. The bard contained the pain in his skull, holding to his song until the last statue fell to dust.

  The silence grew until it roared around their heads. The very air crackled with latent thaumaturgy.

  Then lightning struck the flagstones, deafening all and throwing not a few from their feet, Cale included. Barin, looking up and, holding his ears, noticed the hooded dog creature had faded from view.

  A cold wind had risen. It whipped the Urgolais’s failing essence into nothing and sent his screaming shadow back into the void. On the other side, the harpist had slumped forward with head down and hair disheveled. Barin could see he was exhausted.

  It’s our turn again!

  Barin shook his battered body into motion, cursing and grunting, forcing his tired bones across to where his wide eyed, slack-jawed crew and companions stood blinking in silence—apart from Cale, who was rubbing a sore knee and whingeing.

  With a grunt, Barin rejoined his men and examined their situation. Not far away the Crenise were doing the same. Barin grinned seeing that boy, bowman, and squire had survived. However, he’d lost two mo
re of his crew, and Fassof was nursing a broken arm. The mate’s eyes were fiery as ever as he gripped the blade in his other hand.

  Behind the castle the morning sun pinked the closest mountain’s snowy upper slopes, casting golden shafts deep into its pine-clad timberline flanks. Eagles whirled in the thermals high above.

  It was a brave morning. Barin couldn’t really believe he was still alive to see it. The square ahead was littered with slime and ash, all that remained of the ogre-statues. Even as he watched, the filthy stuff turned to vapor and was scattered by the steady breeze.

  Long seconds passed. Barin’s party confronted Pollomoi’s ashen-faced troop across the square. He laughed at the fear so evident in their eyes.

  Your warlock lost, rat-face.

  Pollomoi’s boys were unsure what to do next. It was apparent none fancied chancing their luck with the giant axe man again.

  A hand shoved Barin’s shoulder hard, distracting him, and he laughed to see Corin an Fol had joined him.

  “You took your bloody time!” Barin said. Corin shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

  “We were a touch preoccupied,” he told his giant friend, The Queen was there too, and Roman Parrantios. Barin was overjoyed to see them all in one piece. He was bruised, battered, bloody, scraped, crushed, and totally knackered but very happy.

  But the joy soon passed. Barin looked up, hearing a shout.

  The Assassin had broken through the gateway. Rael Hakkenon was spitting like a lynx in heat, yelling and kicking his dazed men into action. Behind him his captains swore vitriol and brandished their steel. It wasn’t over yet. Barin gave Corin a wink and scratched his bleeding ear. Corin shrugged. Biter’s steel was pitted and scored, but a few sharp bits remained. They would suffice.

  Here we go again—round three!

  Zallerak adjusted his cloak and fastidiously shook the ghastly ash from his gloved hands. He felt shaken and exhausted. He was so out of practice. He had to laugh, though, he’d certainly spoiled Dog Face’s party.

  Morak must have known someone with skill was over on Crenna, but to find Zallerak waiting for him—that must have been a shock for the old boy. It would put him on his back claws for a time. It would take Morak a good while to recover from the mind blasting Zallerak had hurled at him.