The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  “Did the Urgolais send it?” Corin had a cold feeling that Dog-face was on the mend.

  “Caswallon, I should imagine.” Zallerak stood leaning on the rail, watching the swell that had swallowed the Soilfin. “Gribble was here because Caswallon’s witch-sight has been compromised by my blocking strategy. We are in more peril than I thought.”

  “What should we do?” Cale couldn’t help asking. He was slightly disappointed Bleyne had shot the goblin thing, horrible though it was.

  “Make haste to Port Sarfe,” responded Ariane. “Before Caswallon’s on our tail again. I see no reason to change our plans now Bleyne’s dealt with his spy. But we need to get there quickly. Enough idle chit chat, I for one am hungry. Is it too early for breakfast?”

  That day passed without further ado. And the next the same. On the third day Barin ordered they change course again, this time faring south east toward South Head and Raleen. The seas behind stayed clear of craft. It seemed they had foiled the Assassin for the time being.

  During the night they rounded South Head, Ariane saw the distant beacon flaring miles away on the headland. Raleen! They were almost there! As she watched through the glass she saw a huge shadow moving slowly along the dark line of cliff. A giant figure striding above the waves, His bulk occluding the beacon fire crowning South Head.

  It might have been her imagination but Ariane felt heavy eyes staring into her cabin, but just then dark cloud squalled sudden rain at her porthole, and cliffs and figure were gone. Shivering, Ariane rolled into her blanket and closed her eyes. She prayed to Elanion the Goddess’s Brother would wait awhile yet for her to pay her due.

  Next morning they arrived in Port Sarfe.

  Chapter 5

  Port Sarfe

  That same morning, nine tough-looking riders clad in fur and iron urged their steeds south through the arid terrain of northern Permio. They’d left Cappel Cormac three days ago and would soon be close to the bandit city Agmandeur.

  Halfway through morning, they crested a rise and the leader summoned a halt. Ahead in the far distance the thin band of the Narion River was barely visible.

  Hagan smiled. They had done well. But then Caswallon’s ‘gift’ of charmed nourishment supplied by the contact had ensured the horses ride at breakneck speed, with need for neither rest nor water. The beasts had died when they’d reached Cappel. But that didn’t matter to Hagan—they’d got them there in record time.

  He turned to Borgil seated on a freshly stolen horse beside him. “A day, maybe two, we’ll have crossed the bridge. Then it’s on to Agmandeur and find the little shit. Double pay, lads! Remember what Caswallon’s contact said!”

  Caswallon’s contact had found Hagan and crew in a tavern just outside Port Wind where they had been charged to apprehend Queen Ariane’s arrival into her country.

  “Been a change of plan,” the little creep had whispered in Hagan’s ear. “Lord Caswallon’s got fresh word of the terrorists’ movements. Seems they are heading for southern Raleen.”

  “And we’re to go find them, I suppose, that will cost your master back in Kella.”

  “You’ll leave them be. Instead you will make for Permio where we have reason to believe Prince Tarin is to be found.”

  “Tarin? I thought the little shit was dead.”

  “Apparently not. And the renegade prince has something our master needs. A sack containing very important goods. Lord Caswallon says it’s vital you recover said goods and stop the prince entering the desert.”

  “And why would Prince Tarin want to do that?” Hagan glared at the man. He didn’t like spies and this one was oilier than most. “Why Permio of all places? And how did the little turd escape from Crenna?”

  “Why and how doesn’t concern you.”

  “Gold does.”

  “Feed your horses this nourishment,”—he’d tossed a small sack onto the table. “It will give them strength and halve your journey time. Feed them every morning and they won’t need rest ere nightfall. Waste not a minute! Find Tarin and recover what he’s stolen and you’ll be paid double—more gold than you can imagine.”

  “I can imagine a lot,” growled Hagan. A week later they’d arrived in Cappel Cormac. They’d ranged through the city for a few days until another ‘contact’ found them and informed them to make for Agmandeur.

  ***

  Port Sarfe was a sprawling tangle of honey-coloured stone, dug deep into steep sandy banks flanking Kael’s Stream. Actually a wide river, Kael’s Stream’s sandy banks formed a lazy loop around the town, protecting it from south and east. The northern town was higher, built on the slopes of a low hill culminating in a wide domelike crown and awarding sweeping views in every direction. Up there the barbican and walls dominated the skyline frowning on harbour and town. Port Sarfe was the busiest and largest of Raleen’s cities. Atarios, the capital, was barely half its size.

  Kael, Raleen’s first ruler, had discovered the site and washed himself in the muddy waters where river met sea. Kael’s Stream was named after him and the city’s name (so legend says) was taken from his homeland Sarfania in long forgotten Gol.

  Despite its chaotic construction, Port Sarfe was impressive on the eye: a maze of narrow winding streets, hedged by high sandstone walls, honey yellow in colour, and dominated by the oval turrets of the old castle and its barbican at the north eastern apex.

  The port had thrived over the years. The last stop before Permio, and the sailor’s last chance of grog and grope before Cappel Cormac. Port Sarfe was the last bastion of the Four Kingdoms. Despite that it had a nasty reputation being renowned for its seedy taverns and grubby brothels.

  Corin loved it here.

  It was a place he knew well, having spent considerable time gambling and sharing pleasantries with those nubile ladies who so often draped themselves around the quayside, soliciting and bantering with the sailors. Those whores were a tough lot—they had to be. Many a sailor had come to grief over chancing his luck in the dark alleys at night.

  Raleenian women were famed for their skill with the knife. They could gut a man, slice his throat and lift his purse in a nonce, were he fool enough to close his eyes. Corin liked the girls here—they had a murderous honesty about them.

  Silon’s house being close by (only twenty miles or so), Port Sarfe had been a home of sorts for Corin during his years in the merchant’s service. It felt good to be back here again.

  Raleenians were a taciturn folk. Dark-skinned, soft talking and passionate. Their forefathers had followed the warlord Kael out of the desert wilderness some years after the arrival of King Kell and his sons. Kael’s people like Kell’s were survivors from the lost continent, Gol.

  Independent and proud, they settled the arid region south of Kelwyn, naming it Raleen after Kael’s beautiful daughter who tragically died on the eve of her wedding night. It was a roughly diamond-shaped country, bordered by mountains in the east and sea to the west, with broad rivers defining both its north and south boundaries. Raleenian rulers shunned the title of king and queen. They preferred to be known as warlords after their forefather, Kael. Despite that they had always been loyal to their overlords in the north, proving staunch allies and keeping a watch on treacherous Permio close by.

  Once a Raleenian was your friend, he was a friend forever. That said, they were quick to anger and sometimes cruel. Port Sarfe was no exception, though the citizens of this southernmost city were considered decadent and lewd compared to other Raleenians. The well-heeled nobles of proud distant Atarios frowned on Port Sarfe, despite gaining wealth from its trade.

  Not that the folk of Port Sarfe gave a fig about that. They delighted in luxuries and pleasures their northern kin shunned, considering such indulgence a sign of weakness and base character. Port Sarfe’s citizens cared not what others thought, whether their own people or foreigners. They bathed themselves daily in the oils of intrigue, and revelled in vitriolic gossip. The markets here were more vibrant than any other town Corin knew. The men were dour
and steadfast—canny with coin and quick with a knife. But Port Sarfe’s women were sultry-eyed and olive-skinned. And even quicker with coin and knife. They wrapped themselves in scented cloth and drove their menfolk wild.

  In Port Sarfe a man could acquire anything he wanted: gold, weapons or other, seedier things. The hot dusty streets rising from the harbour to the old barbican were a torturous maze of overcrowded mayhem. At night these streets became a lair of footpads and cutpurses.

  It was only three days ride from the eastern gates of the city to the great Liaho River. That confluence marked the southern extent of the Four Kingdoms. Beyond the Liaho, the vast sandy dunes of the Permian desert marched southwards into areas unknown by decent folk.

  That was hostile country.

  It was a fine sunny morning. Corin stood by Barin relishing the warm air, as his friend piloted them skilfully into the harbour. It was rarely cold here even in winter—and it was still only late autumn.

  Corin stretched and yawned; he’d stripped to his waist and was enjoying the sun’s heat on his pink northern skin. His grey/blue gaze scanned the bustling harbour as they entered, then reached further out to the flatness of the coastal strip beyond. As he watched, a colourful flock of exotic birds winged north along the coast. Their harsh calls carried from the arid dunes framing the shore for mile upon mile. Beyond that lay a more fertile area of creeks, swamps, reeds and wildfowl.

  This was the Liaho’s sprawling delta. Around its glittering, snake-writhing tributaries sprawled a sallow treacherous marsh. A place of poisonous gases and steaming pools, impassable to all save a few native guides. Beyond the delta, the coast swept around in a broad arc fading from view before another river, the Narion, met the sea. Squatting on the far bank of the Narion’s filthy mouth was the stinking fleshpot called Cappel Cormac.

  “Fine view, isn’t it?” Barin flashed a grin at Corin. The blond giant had also stripped to the waist. His massive chest was beaded with sweat under the morning’s hot sunshine. He’d been humming a bawdy tune whilst guiding The Starlight Wanderer over to the harbour’s occupied side.

  Corin grinned in acknowledgement. He was itching to jump ashore. The warm sun had raised his spirits considerably since the night before.

  “Port Sarfe!” He flashed a grin at Barin. “I had some times here.”

  “Me too in my earlier days.” Barin released an enthusiastic fart into the harbour. “Those dark-eyed Raleenian lassies—feisty little beauties!”

  “Treacherous,” Corin added.

  “That too.”

  Corin looked up at the distant barbican and honey-stained walls cordoning the glistening red-tiled roofs of the city. The lanes mostly wound up in that direction. These were narrow in places, some only wide enough for a single person to pass. They coiled around dingy inns, shops and bazaars, stables, tanneries and modest homes before reaching the barbican gates. Corin relaxed, for the first time since departing Crenna he felt almost content. Barin was right, why would Rael Hakkenon sail this far south?

  Although the harbour was bustling with craft of every size and shape there was plenty of mooring space. They set to close to one of the largest taverns. Barin’s choice of mooring was cause for concern for Ariane.

  “I need to get supplies,” Barin winked at her. “Stock up on ale and food and other gubbins. We could use some fresh lads too, though I care not to employ foreigners, so I think we’ll struggle on that score. But I know a few useful traders here, and bargaining is always better with the fortitude of ale.”

  “And we’ll need to glean some local information before we head out to Vioyamis,” Corin explained lamely. He was thirsty this morning and determined to down a flagon or two. “The Crooked Knife is one of Sarfe’s finest taverns.”

  Corin pointed to the nearest inn. A low-roofed, square building with small windows and doors resting ajar. “It will be ideal,” Corin insisted. “We can break our fasts, and give Barin’s boys time to restock the ship, fill their bellies with fresh food.” Ariane’s expression darkened further.

  “With beer, you mean.” Ariane was frustrated, deeming it foolish to linger in Port Sarfe with Silon’s house being so close. But after such a long and troubled voyage she found small room for argument. These were her friends but bar Galed, none were her people. Despite that she spoke her mind.

  “Well, make it quick! I don’t think we should linger hereabouts. Port Sarfe is a dangerous place. There are bound to be spies abroad, both Caswallon’s and the sultan’s. And what if Rael Hakkenon got word of our whereabouts? We don’t want to be trapped in this harbour, Captain Barin.”

  “Indeed not, my Queen,” exclaimed Barin, grinning at her. She knew it was hopeless. His mind was on ale and nothing else. Corin’s too—and the crew. The only allies she had were Galed and Cale. And Cale was weakening fast. “A quick stop then we seek out Silon.” Barin winked reassuringly to her. Ariane nodded briskly before retiring to her cabin to make ready for their journey inland.

  Barin turned to his men. “Come on, lads, you heard the queen! There’re provisions to be bought and goods sold. We might as well make a profit while we’re here.”

  Ariane heard that as she entered the hatch. She raised an eyebrow but refused to comment. “Just remember to keep your teeth together,” continued Barin. “I don’t want to hear anyone got drunk in my absence. And no fighting.”

  Cogga grumbled at that last comment and muttered something in his beard.

  Corin noticed that his companions had all changed into lighter garments, supplied by Barin’s copious wardrobe in the Master’s Cabin. Over the years he’d acquired a fair range of clothing through trade and barter.

  Barin offered Corin a silk tunic. The longswordsman sniffed at it, frowned and decided to stick with his leathers. Corin slung the steel shirt over his shoulders, strapped on Clouter’s harness and slung the longsword and Biter in their scabbards. Within minutes he was sweating profusely.

  I’ll change at Silon’s.

  The merchant was a fastidious bather, and although Corin considered excessive bathing to be unhealthy, indeed dangerous, once a month it helped to purge the soul. He had left some clothes at Vioyamis unless Nalissa had burnt them, which wasn’t unlikely.

  Corin glanced askance at Barin. His friend stood preening himself in the sunshine. The Northman had changed into black linen trousers and bright yellow silk shirt. He looked immaculate if a tad garish. He’d filled his arms with gold rings and spirals and wore a silver circlet on his brow.

  “You look like a giant bumblebee—couldn’t you find something less yellow?” Corin winced at all that colour.

  “I like bright colours. And I’m to accompany you to Vioyamis,” Barin replied. “I told you I wish to speak with Silon. I’ll stay for a day or so then return here. Fassof will keep an eye on things.”

  “That’s if Silon’s at home. Last I heard he was in Permio.”

  “He should be back by now. Come on, I’m thirsty. Where’s Bleyne?” Barin glanced around but couldn’t see the archer. “Galed, old chap, are you coming too? How about you, master Cale? You could do with fattening up.”

  Cale grinned as he joined them on deck. Behind him Galed looked worried. He’d heard stories about this place and, like the queen, thought they’d be wiser making for Silon’s house at once.

  Bleyne was away purchasing arrows from a dealer on the quay. He returned heavily laden and joined them. Zallerak still hadn’t surfaced from his cabin.

  Barin’s men set to work stowing sails and making fast. Fassof sent a few off to forage for supplies. One of them was Cogga.

  “They’ll be no drinking until the work’s done!” the mate hollered after them. Cogga flashed a finger for reply.

  Ariane re-emerged on deck. She’d changed into leather riding trousers, long suede boots and a short grey linen tunic, which left her tanned arms bare. Her hair had grown quite long since first Corin had met her. This Ariane had tied back in a neat bun. At her waist hung rapier and dagger. The queen look
ed stunning this morning.

  “Are you sure The Starlight Wanderer will be safe moored in the harbour while we seek out Silon?” Ariane asked Barin, who had just jumped from the deck to join them. He had belted Wyrmfang around his broad waist and stood grinning in the sunshine. “She is a conspicuous sight.”

  “Fassof will keep an eye on things, my Queen,” Barin insisted with a grin.

  “Two eyes, I hope,” responded Ariane. “We stop for an hour—no more.” Ariane was determined their visit to The Crooked Knife would be brief. The sooner Corin and Barin, (not to mention Cale), were out of this town the better!

  ***

  Taic was not having a good day. His head still spun from last night and his purse was woefully empty. That Raleenian bitch had relieved him of both wits and coin. He ought to have known better. Trouble was, he hung out with the wrong crew. One of whom was currently snoring on the filthy floor beside him.

  Sveyn.

  As usual it was all his fault. Where Sveyn led Taic followed, despite Taic being nephew to the island’s greatest warrior, and Sveyn a lowly docker’s son. It had been a good night though, what with the fighting, wenching, gambling and frolicking around. Taic hadn’t had so much fun since he and Sveyn had left Valkador last summer, determined to make a name for themselves in the south. That hadn’t really happened, instead the Northmen had become the favourite target of Port Sarfe’s militia. All because of a little misunderstanding. Those Raleenian guards had no sense of humour.

  Taic opened a bleary eye. Outside the sun’s glare stabbed dazzling knives into his head.

  “Ouch.” Taic rolled to his feet, farted habitually and reached for the pitcher containing the stale remains of the ale he hadn’t finished last night. He threw the contents of the pitcher over his head and belched. Revived, Taic turned toward Sveyn, awarding his friend a hearty kick.

  “Piss off!” The voice was muffled but then Sveyn’s mouth was half filled with dried vomit.

  “Time to get up! Those militia lads will be back soon.” Taic yawned across to the nearest table. On it was a plate containing cold rice and beans and a mug of ale—both items abandoned by a patron when the fighting broke out. Taic wiped the snot from his nose and stuffed the cold jellied contents of the plate into his mouth. He didn’t bother with a spoon. He then reached for the adjacent ale mug and drained it in one. Behind him, Sveyn yawned, belched, wiped his mouth clean on his sleeve, and rolled grumbling to his feet.